


Letters from the Inquisition

by SentenceFragment



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi, POV Multiple, Slow Build, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 112,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentenceFragment/pseuds/SentenceFragment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition.” </p><p>A tale of Ellana Lavellan, atypical Dalish and petty thief, and of the motley crew that make up her Inquisition. Told in her own words and theirs, as each tries to forget their past and make the best of their present.</p><p>Rotating POVs – DA:I has so many strong and deep characters it’d be a waste not to write them too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory for the Inquisitor here. The events of the game pick up in Chapter 3, so feel free to skip to that if that's your preference. Ellana's backstory will inform events of the narrative, but it's not essential.

Winter in the shadows of the Vimmark mountains was unforgiving. We huddled together against the frost and chill, his ironbark gauntlets firm and reassuring around my leather-clad shoulders. My father was the warleader of clan Lavellan, an able hunter, and I trusted him implicitly. The blind faith of an elven child who aspired to nothing more than to follow in her father’s footsteps. 

I was fifteen when we went to Kirkwall. He knew an elf there, assured me that a promising partnership lay in wait. It was plausible; our wayfaring often found our clan in many backward parts of the Free Marches, and our foraging unearthed flora and fauna, minerals and artefacts that often held more meaning for others than for us. There was often a look of desperation in the eyes of our buyers, and I remember thinking, even as a child, that it felt wrong to trade a scrap of stone and false promises for a heavy pouch of coins. But my father told me that the hope we gifted to shemlen was enough, that their minds would be at ease even as the bodies they tried to cure or curse remained unchanged.

I told my father he was full of crap once.

“You’re fine with it because they’re shemlen.” I spat at him, eyes holding his over our campfire as we returned to the woods from Wycome. “You’ll take their money or their food and scam them. And when their miracle cure doesn’t work because, “ _oh, it wasn’t actually the ashes of Andraste, was it?_ ”, they’ll hate elves more than they already do. What have you accomplished?”

My father did not hesitate. “We have supplies that will feed the clan for a month. What more would you have me do?”

“You are a hunter.” My emphasis made my implication plain.

“We cannot live, all of us, on what we find and kill in the woods. We cannot kill everything we see and expect that there will be game again next year.” He dropped my gaze, eyes turning to the would-be totem he whittled at in his hands, knife practiced and fluid. 

“We cannot sully our reputation with every shemlen we trade with either.” 

He said nothing to my barb. 

“Keeper Deshanna would never –”

“Keeper Deshanna knows what I do.” He interrupted her, dark green eyes, so like my own, unwavering as they met mine. “What we do. She takes the coin and the goods because we must. This is what we are now, Ellana.”

I fell quiet and thought on it. Tried to reconcile his words with the tales of the Emerald Knights, with Elvhenan and the hands that built Halamshiral in the Dales. Where did we fit, two Dalish elves around a fire, bearing the name of a lost homeland, my father marked for Andruil, claiming connection to an even older world? 

I don’t know if it began with that conversation, but slowly, my father’s loose convictions became my own. My prayers to the Creators were ritualistic and unsure, the product of rote repetition more than true belief. I listened to Keeper Deshanna diligently, her gentle voice lilting along familiar storylines, but when my brother Elhan demanded more details, I did not understand his need. Why did it matter how Briathos died? When would we ever have a border to patrol, a nation to protect?

My father had not always been that way. You did not become the warleader on the basis of large hauls and ill-gotten goods. My own clan tells stories of his agility and his steady aim; he led our clan’s movements during druffalo season, tracking the herd and slaying just enough to get by. 

I am told it changed when my mother died, but my memories of her are manufactured on stories also. It is hard to think of my father, smiling and confident alongside his partner; they hunted together and lay together, she a lithe and limber elven woman with long complicated braids, a sideways smile, and a speed with daggers that outpaced even my father. I have her hair, I am told, dark, wavy if I let it, but not her cobalt eyes. Elhan and I have a dagger each – intricate ironbark blades with words of an old song strung along the surface.

 _We were here before the sunrise of the world._  
Words without context – do they suggest that my mother was a believer? That thought of the Creators and their legacy gave her comfort at night?

By the time my memories are my own and no longer inherited, my father is a still man. Soft, but effortlessly lethal if necessary. Deferent to the Keeper and to Lorien, the other senior hunter. When he roams, he takes Elhan or me instead of a whole hunting party; we learn to hunt by emulation, but also to forage, to lie, to converse with shemlen with the perfect balance of gumption and obsequiousness that gets goods traded and food in our stomachs.

Elhan, of course, wants none of the careful negotiations or stable trade relationships. Two years my senior, he is fierce and impulsive, overrun with an infectious energy that has us disappearing in the woods, up in trees, mocking the other children who can’t even begin to keep up with us. The adults smile and say we have our mother’s speed, our father’s strength. Growing up, we felt like we were destined for greatness.

Elhan followed the path my father had laid out; his vallaslin marked him for Andruil, and he became a full-fledged hunter at only seventeen. And when we hunted together, he told me stories beneath his breath as we snuck into a spider cave, and I felt myself belong again. 

“Mythal, but she’s _beautiful_ , Ellana.” Elhan did everything with purpose, and his boyish infatuations were no exception. His arm swept out, lightning fast, and the spider lost three legs.

I rolled my eyes. “Can we talk about Miriel when we’re not covered in spider guts?” I brought my daggers down and into the creature’s body, pulling back with practiced easy to dodge the spurt of blood. 

“No, you don’t understand,” another two legs go flying, “She’s _all_ I can think about.”

I didn’t understand. Maybe it was because I was only fifteen, but I had not yet known the all-consuming passion where Elhan so frequently lost himself. 

I sighed, sheathing my blades and collecting venom from the large fangs. “Just don’t tell father. You don’t need another lecture on the importance of joining and respectful intentions.”

He chuckled, and I smiled at the memory. After he got his vallaslin, Elhan and my father were always at war. They bickered over the trite, over Elhan’s overt dalliances and his encouragement of my reading and writing, and they fought exhaustively on the significant, the higher purpose of our clan, the importance of steadfast worship.

“You go through the motions and lack the meaning!” Elhan’s words, accusatory and loud in the quiet of Planasene Forest. My father pauses next to me; our retreat is halted.

“Faith is a private struggle, Elhan.” My father does not look at my brother, only speaks in his soft, firm way.

“Yours stopped being private the moment you started dragging Ellana down with you!” Elhan advances, grabs him now by the shoulder, forcing our father to turn.

“Please don’t make this about me.” I remember saying. I could never stand the heat of their disagreements. “Please, Elhan. We’ll be back in a fortnight.”

“With swindled coin and luxury furs, no doubt.” He hisses the words, anger in his green eyes. My father grabs his hand and removes it. 

“It is not for you to question my actions. Go back to the clan.”

Elhan recognizes finality in our father’s tone. Further words are wasted. He retreats with a smile at me, reaching out and ruffling my hair. 

“I’ll see you soon, da’len.”

“Dareth shiral, Elhan.”

It was more than a decade before I saw him again.

 

*  
Athenril was sharp – sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, quick on her feet and quicker with her words. I think I did not truly realize what my father had committed us to until our third week in Kirkwall.

“Father,” I spun and my blade made contact with the soft flesh above the collar bone. The Carta thug went down. I had killed my first shem at thirteen, part of a bandit camp we’d laid to waste. But I’d never killed as readily or repeatedly as I had in those early days in the city. 

“We are not going back to the clan, are we?”

My father looked up from the pockets he was rifling through, stuffing a handful of silver coins into his pouch. His face betrayed no emotion, pale green vallaslin still over his dark eyes. He scanned my face, but he had trained me to be like him, to let nothing show because the shems would press if they read a moment of weakness in your brows, a falseness in an over-bright smile. 

“No.” He stood and walked over to me, placed a hand on my cheek, and smiled gently. “The clan had nothing to offer you, Ellana.”

“But Elhan…”

“Elhan is happy.” My father smiled wryly then. “He will make some woman happy soon enough. He belongs.”

And I understood the sentiment, as we stood there in the dark of a Lowtown shanty, blood pooling on the ground beside our boots. My dark hair was mussed out of its usual order from the fray, and I felt sweat beneath my arms, along my brow. But I leaned into my father’s hand, savouring the rare moment of affection.

“You didn’t belong?” I’d never questioned him so directly about his own beliefs. That was Elhan’s role, his combative words. My father had never answered Elhan, but my gentle tone and the promise of understanding that must’ve shown on my face eroded my father’s walls. 

“No,” he dropped his hand and resumed his pilfering of the Carta men. In the folds of the dead thief’s vest, he found a sealed tube. The missive Athenril had sent us here for. The Carta deal, effectively disrupted. The knowledge of the product was now ours.

“I stopped believing in the Creators when they let your mother die. If Mythal would not protect her in the most sacred of moments, I could not continue to serve.” He slipped the tube into his belt, and beckoned me to follow. In the distance, we heard the shouts of the City Guard. 

“And you are so brilliant, Ellana. You had all the answers our tomes could give you.” 

I was surprised at this, as we slinked away in the darkness, making our way back to the quarters Athenril allocated to us. I had always thought my father opposed to my love of words. I had read every book my clan had collected; I traded shem for new ones in the Free Marches markets. And when I finished each book a second time, I began to write my own, stories from my mind or from my life. This journal was the product of that surplus time and unsated urge for more words on paper.

The clan seemed to think it wasteful. I would braid intricate necklaces of leather and wool, delicate jewelry that promised a shemlen girl an exotic allure. And with the good coin I made this way, I purchased blank books and ink, fashioning quills of feathers and worlds out of words. My father was chastised for indulging my daydreaming, and in turn I was admonished, brought on more trips to occupy my idle hands with foraging for elfroot and carving obsidian out of sheer rock-faces.

“It is better we left before your vallaslin.” My father swung down a flight of stairs and ducked into an underpass, finding the tight alley between two wood-panel lean-tos that led to our den. “It will be easier for you; you can even pass for a shem with a cloak or longer hair.”

I reached up and fingered the points of my delicate ears. I had never been made to feel ashamed for what I look like, not by my father. 

“You can be someone here, Ellana.” He sat on the single stool in our hovel, and immediately began to clean his blades. “When I began to see that life in the clan could bring you no more than it brought me, I knew I had to do something.”

I sat in the dirt and tried to process this news. He said it was for me, and I was touched, but I needed to also believe that this was what was best for him. I mimicked his actions, wiping down my blade, running a small whetstone along the edge, as I tried to understand that I would not see my clan again. 

“Keeper Deshanna will understand.” I said in the growing gloom. Our single candle burned down.

“Yes, she will.” 

Always observant, the Keeper had seen the deepening emptiness inside my father. She had all but replaced his role in the clan with Lorien, sparing my father the shame of removing his title. 

“We will make money this way.” My father’s face became animated, suddenly, and I wondered if he sensed my doubt, tried to counteract it. “We will make money and buy you the finest books. You will learn and we will move out of this place.” He gestured vaguely to their space, a hole in the ground with a stool, two bedrolls, and wooden boards that served as both walls and doors. 

“Athenril is a crook.” My objection is not so much to her character, but to the prospect of long-term illicit employment for us both. She has a charm of her own, after all. 

“Athenril gave us a chance.” My father is whittling now, never one to leave hands idle. He is carving the moon out of a misshapen stick. I don’t know how he knows just where to chip away, to encourage a shape to emerge. “She remembered me from past dealings. She knows that Dalish hunters are fast and deadly.” 

“She was probably impressed that you could broker a trade agreement in five words or less,” I smile at him, and he chuckles softly.

“Tight lips are a pre-requisite in the smuggling business,” he concedes.

*

It’s Athenril who teaches me to swear like a shem, drink like a dwarf, and to go for underhanded moves that the Dalish never needed. Tripwire and traps are her speciality, and knocking out an opponent before you slit his throat is simply a good business model in her line of work. Less noise, less mess, less unwanted attention.

“I don’t get it.” Our feet were up on the balcony railing of her favourite Lowtown pub, drinks in hand. “Why is talking about his balls a bad thing?”

She cackles and wipes the tears from her eyes.

“Oh, you precious little woodland child.” Mirth shakes her shoulders. “He’s the _Maker_. The big guy in the sky? The one and only creator of the world and all its creatures?”

“Yeah, but…” I swirl my drink in my hand, pleased at the fuzziness that mires my thoughts. “They’re just balls.”

“Okay, okay, I get that nakedness is not a big thing to you folks in the woods. But these are _divine_ balls.”

I can’t help the giggle that pops out at her affected reverence. 

“So, I stub my toe and I just yell “Maker’s balls”?”

“That’s the idea,” the blond elf nods approvingly, crossing one ankle over her knee. “That or Andraste’s tits. Depends how inclusive you’re feeling.”

We laughed together as the moon rose. She called me Starlight, said I was reliable, brightened her day, came in quick and disappeared like the light behind clouds. I thought it was poetic, scoffed openly, but secretly was pleased.

She’s the one, scarred up arms, crooked smile and all, who taught me confidence in my body; she used to say she could sashay the pants of any guardsperson, man or woman. Watching her, I learned that the sway of my hips could make a point, get me my way when passing through the city gates. That a long, drawn-out kiss could spill secrets faster than a knife against the ribs. One of those kisses lasted longer than others, and then I was finally in on that making love business that everyone gossiped about. Athenril teased me about that, said I shouldn’t get attached, but that she couldn’t blame me because _those_ rippling arms and dark eyes were enough to make any elf forget herself, shem or no shem. I smiled back, shy but also proud, and asked her not to tell my father.

She laughed. “Starlight, even your father’s got to know that you’re a proper woman now.” 

Somehow, that’s what I had become, slim limbs and a small frame, but curvy in a way that I knew drew eyes. I learned to like the intimacy of another body pressed against mine, and there was a man among Athenril’s contacts who I saw more than once. A part of me remembered Elhan, and his infatuations, and I wondered if this is what he meant. But his earnest words, _she’s all I can think about,_ that wasn’t a sensation I could connect with yet. 

Tripwires in the dark and a glance through lowered lashes – these were methods I employed when I was older, on my own, my father and I both experienced enough for solo missions. _Use what the Maker gave you,_ Athenril always said, _and, blast it Starlight, the Maker was plenty generous with you._

Athenril was alright. She was a criminal, yes, plain faced as my father was a Dalish elf, but she had her principles. I asked her about those once.

“The Black Daggers do slaves.” I raised an eyebrow at her, letting it pose my question. So different from how I was raised, using my face to speak instead of keeping it a still mask that said nothing. Between my father and Athenril, I had the choice: talk with my words or with my body.

“Yeah, slaves are messy.” She cleaned the dirt from under her finger nails with a dagger. “You have to feed them, keep them clean or you don’t make any money. You have to find unscrupulous buyers, and that can be a whole other pot of piss.”

“So it’s too much hassle?” My tone conveys the words I don’t utter. So you have no problem with enslaving another person?

She smiles at me sideways, eyes narrowing as she sizes me up.

“Don’t play passive-aggressive with me, Starlight. I’m a flat-earred elf at the end of the day, and I know what it feels like to be stepped on by those who think they own you. I could never do that kind of trade.”

I smile, satisfied with her answer. Athenril steals for the rich and from the rich. She slips contraband under the noses of guards and kills the competition when they have information she wants. I feel mischievous when I’m doing her work, but I don’t feel _wrong._ Sometimes, I wonder if that should worry me. Elhan would certainly disapprove.

“Oh, here,” her voices pulls me from my thoughts. “Dug this out of from under a dead guy for you.” She bends under the table and emerges again, book in hand. Brother Genetivi, on the history of the Free Marches. My eyes light up, and I accept the gift with a thank you.

“Don’t thank me. Maker knows what you find to keep yourself busy between those covers. If it isn’t the smutty stuff, I don’t bother.” She sniffs, but I can tell she’s happy to see my unabashed delight.

I never learned more of Athenril’s past. City elf and smuggling queen – that was the snapshot she let me see. I idealized her in the years my father and I worked for her. And when that changed, it changed suddenly and swiftly, and my life took another path altogether.

*  
The humans – Athenril says it’s best to avoid calling them shems to their face, good graces and all that – have an irrational fear of magic. I found it funny at first, watching the Templars patrol the imposing tower down by the Kirkwall docks, puffed up in their armour with their notions of importance, pseudo-skirts swaying around their knees. But when Athenril snapped at me, my laughter died.

“It’s a barbaric way to live.” Her brows are low, her usual good humour gone. Children taken from parents, she told me, mages in a cage, forbidden love and freedom. Like slavery, but lacking even the purpose of assigned work.

Kirkwall, of course, seedy, bustling place that it was, abounded with mages outside of the circle. The humans had a word for these too – an ugly word, ‘apostate’ – and though Athenril employed none, I met a few in my work. Athenril realised quickly that I did not fear them the way the rest of her crew did. The mages in our clan were the highest in our hierarchy. I had faith in magic, associated it with our Keeper, her quiet ways and steadfast leadership. So when it came to missions with mages, my father and I were Athenril’s obvious choice.

It was on one such mission that things went wrong. My father, always attuned to the mood in a room, knew it before I did. I saw it in the way his feet spread out to balance his stance, the way his arm slipped slowly beneath his cloak. I tensed, and the eyes of the mage flickered in my direction. My movement had been sudden and I cursed myself; sometimes I had none of my father’s grace.

“Thank you for the herbs.” The mage accepted the box and turned from my father. His staff, strapped on his back over dark robes, glowed softly. A green aura, eerie and indistinct. “I would have had a hard time getting them past the Guards.” A hand fell into his robes and emerged with a dagger. My own fingers itched for my knives, and I tried to relax as he pried open the lid of the box we’d given him.

“We will take our payment and be on our way.” My father’s voice, firm and low now, with none of the tenderness he reserved for me.

“Yes, yes, so mercenary.” And then the mage laughed. “I suppose that’s to be expected in your line of work, no?”

He turned away from us, and then swung back suddenly. I blinked. How had it happened? He moved with the speed of a practiced assassin. With an intent neither my father nor I expected. With a knife in his hand that found its way through the weak seam in the abdomen of my father’s armour. 

And then his staff was out and he was chanting. Words I didn’t understand fell around me as I dropped to my knees and pressed my hand against the blood. My father’s blood and his face, pale beneath the green of his insignia to Andruil. I tried to stuff it back in, the blood, my fingers slick and red, frantic thoughts and useless actions as the world around us turned the colour of flames.

“ _Well, well._ ” A lascivious voice and a sudden coldness unlike any cold I’d ever felt. Hands shaking, I raised my gaze from where my father lay.

 _There are all kinds of demons_ , Athenril had told me once, deep in her cups. _Big ass red ones that’ll smash you to bits, hulking motherfuckers that feed off your pride. And then this one. Slim and sexy, pink like lips that know just what you want_.

“ _This will do nicely._ ” The demon knelt across from me, smoothed fingers like snakes along his face as my father gurgled piteously. “ _You’ll get what you want. You’ll see her again, have her all to yourself_.” 

A voice like silk and daggers all at once, and I didn’t know what to do. I lunged, not with my knives but with my hands, barrelled into its bare breasts and wrapped my fingers around its throat.

And then I was gone, hitting the ground on the other side of the room as pain blossomed along my torso.

She looked at me, appraising while her fingers snaked round my father’s neck.

“ _Power._ ” She hummed in thought. “ _But not yet. I will be back for you._ ” 

And then she ripped her hand upwards, pulled my father’s throat from his neck. Licked the blood off her fingers, eyes on me speculatively.

“Mistress, are you pleased?”

“ _Hm?_ ” She glanced absently over her shoulder at the cowering mage. “ _Ah, Quentin. Let us go._ ”

She floated, her frame still as they glided away. 

“You will help me raise her…” his simpering voice and her unearthly glow disappeared down the Lowtown alley. Blood spattered in her wake, a drip-drop trail beneath feet that dangled as she glided.

And then they were gone, and I was alone with the gore.

I whimpered. Crawled. As best I could, one arm dangling useless from where she had torn it open. I was crying; it was just so much. 

He lay still, his throat a yawning maw of distended vocal cords and severed veins. Blood spattered his chin, his cheeks and I tried feebly to wipe it away. My tears on his face, the only thing I could offer to cleanse him of the evil. I stayed until the sobs left me. The pain in my arm, my side, was growing, and a part of me knew I cannot remain here. I stumbled to my knees, crawled to the mage’s desk and pause. 

Right on top, nestled in the box where the delivery once was, is a note in Athenril’s hand.

_Here’s what you asked for. As for the other matter, the father should do nicely. Dalishy and spiritual, heartbroken too, isn’t that what they go for?_

I dropped the letter. Fell backwards. Couldn’t process it. Couldn’t look back at the corpse of the man that raised me, and wonder how we had let this come to pass.

“Maker’s breath.”

A voice behind me and I turned.

“We’re too late.” Another voice, deeper, coming from a Templar with brown hair and warm eyes. 

“I told you my information was good, Thrask. He’s a blood mage, through and through”

“Well, excuse me if I need evidence to be persuaded.”

“Yes well, you’ve got plenty of that now, don’t you?”

They caught sight of me and froze. The Templar was tall and wide, a sturdy stance and gentle expression beneath his beard. The other was slimmer, with loose chestnut curls and sea-foam eyes. He knelt next to me and held a hand out, voice softening from its accusatory tone.

“There now,” I flinched at the words spoken in my direction. “You’re hurt. We can help.”

I looked from his steady eyes to the Templar behind him. The knight smiled gently, tried to be encouraging.

“My father…” my voice is raspy, incredulous. The sympathy in their eyes is instantaneous. The hand propping me up is slipping as the blood pools beneath my palm. “He was…” my mind flails around, not knowing what it means. “…here before the sunrise.”

My world is black then, and memory retreats.


	2. Prologue II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last section of Inquisitor backstory here. The third chapter picks up the start of the game and moves into third person narration.

It was at this juncture that I should’ve returned to my clan. Athenril had sold us out and my father was gone. I felt like I should’ve blamed myself. That it was because of me we were in Kirkwell at all. But I didn’t feel that guilt, and the absence of the feeling brought more shame than anything else. I was confused. My father was gone.

I would have walked away from it all were it not for Caspen. He and Thrask were colleagues, almost friends, and maybe they saved my life that day. If I had lain in the streets, passed out and losing blood, maybe I wouldn’t be here, be writing these words. It was Caspen, in his soothing way, who convinced me to put pen to paper when the sounds themselves didn’t come. To write up to it, document what came first because that would make writing about the rest of it easier.

They told me what they did that day because I remembered none of it. Thrask took me to the Templar garrison. Apparently the collateral damage of a blood-mage’s demon-summoning warrants extra medical attention. They set my disjointed arm in my socket, sewed up the jagged tears from the desire demon’s claws. The scar puckers along my shoulder, just under my collarbone, onto the top of my right breast, and I can’t bear to look at it. They asked me questions that I couldn’t answer properly, and I gave them Athenril’s name and my own path in garbled half-coherent sentences. 

“She said she’ll be back for me.” I said it over and over; I heard the creature’s voice in my mind when I closed my eyes. At first the Templars were worried, had me under guard. But as the days turned to weeks, they dismissed the threat as a malignant and unmeaning, dropped for the express purpose of prolonged torture and delight in my fear.

It was Caspen who pulled me away, eventually, arm around my shoulders as he insisted “she’s had enough.”

Caspen took me to his home by the docks, planted me at a window that looked out over the Waking Sea. Told me to write, told me that it would get easier. Gave me books to read.

If he hadn’t been a scholar, I wouldn’t have stayed. The books that lined his walls enticed me though, demanding nothing of me and offering up so much. Reminded me of the late night conversation with my father, when he told me he’d wanted something more for me. And the questions Caspen asked about the Dalish were both informed and respectful.

“So they’re not a form of slave branding?” He looked dubious at my certainty as he eyed me over steaming tea. The morning light filtered through the window, over our faces, and the lull of the ocean tide outside made me feel at peace. 

“No, no,” I laughed at the notion. 

He quirked an eyebrow, his hair falling over his forehead as he leaned back in the chair. “I read that the Tevinters branded their elven slaves to denote their own divine preferences.”

“They are symbols of worship,” I clarified, spreading my hands. “They demonstrate our dedication to particular gods.”

His eyebrow arched higher, and I smiled at his exaggerated response. He put on his charm when I seemed withdrawn, humoured me with it and made me smile. It was thoughtful, and I was touched. 

“So you’re a godless elf then?” He knew he could push on the Dalish issues. I even liked it when he did; it was better than the outright disrespect of strangers, or the deliberately light-hearted treatment of those who tried too hard to be nice.

“I was too young, I suppose. My clan didn’t deem me ready for vallaslin, and then we left.”

And that was enough on that. The “we” was always my father and I. Caspen knew, and moved on.

“Well, I’m out for the day. Off to meet a merchant from Orzammar. Says he’s got some books on lyrium I’m quite interested in.”

He stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, gesturing at the modest space. His home boasted two storeys – more than I’d ever achieved in my years in Kirkwall. Two rooms upstairs, one his bedroom and the other, his study. He made the study accommodate me with a bedroll on the ground. The main floor had the cluttered nook where I often sat, a pretence of a kitchen, and walls lined with books.

“Keep yourself amused.”

I smiled, said nothing, and watched him go. 

Caspen studied demons, and at first I think that’s why he kept me around. He would get to it eventually, in a sideways sort of way, asking what she had looked like, what words the mage intoned to bring her here. What she’d said to my father. It was impossible to talk about at first, so he asked if he could read my journal. It was written in his notebooks, with his ink and quills, in his home. I didn’t think I could refuse.

After that it was easier to talk about. He explained what he thought had happened. That Quentin wanted something, someone brought back from the dead for him. Maybe. That blood magic was the easiest way bring a demon across the Fade and into our world. That if you had a big favour to ask, a little extra offering to the demon never hurt. 

I dreamt of the encounter, but tried not to think on it in my waking moments. I read instead. Sometimes when he came home I was so enamoured with what I’d learned that we’d talk for hours. He’d start grumpy and dusty from the streets, but I knew that the right questions on the right subjects would draw him out. Tevinter history, the Old Gods and the start of the Blight. The connection between lyrium and magic. The question of why dwarves don’t dream.

We often sat long into the night, talking and listening. And when the streets got noisy as the bars let out, Caspen would glance away from our locked eyes and make excuses. Stand and go up to bed. Leave me alone with my thoughts and feelings that were new to me. I didn’t understand his hesitation.

Thrask came sometimes too. He brought news of Athenril, of the Templar investigation that ultimately turned up nothing.

“She said she had no idea.” Thrask’s tone is neutral; he isn’t sure if he believed the smuggler. He puts his hand out on mine, and though he can’t be much older than myself, it feels almost fatherly. “She says she’s sorry.”

My eyes rise at that point, scanning Thrask’s for a sense of what he thinks. In all my years with Athenril, she had never apologized for anything.

“Quentin, the mage, asked for a man that could win the affections or interest of a lady.” Thrask recounts Athenril’s explanation. “Said he wanted to someone persuade the woman to pay good money for his concoction.”

A part of me wanted to seek Athenril out myself. She was shrewd; if her story was true, how had the mage lied so convincingly? How had he fooled us all, the trained liars that we were? A part of me wanted to find Quentin and kill him myself. I’d killed for far less when working for Athenril. But then I heard the demon’s words again, you’ll get what you want, have her all to yourself, and I wondered if my father had perhaps been ready to die.

There was another hunter who went that way. Keeper Deshanna could have saved him with her magic. But he’d closed her eyes and asked her not to, said death from the hunt was the way of Andruil. Vir Assan. Strike true and do not waver. Do not let your prey suffer. I remember being a child, not understanding it. When I think back to my father and the small smiles he’d give me, I can’t say that I could call him a happy man. 

I’d killed for pragmatic purposes, but never for vengeance. I didn’t know if I could, even if I found Quentin where the Templars had failed. Killing for purpose, for information, is like killing for the hunt. In the woods, we must eat so we slay the druffalo. In the city, the simple needs of food and shelter are complicated, mired in a system that demands coin exchanged at every nexus. Both Athenril and my father demonstrated that killing in the city was a means to an end, gold and secrets that bought comfort and security.

Caspen and Thrask did not object to my criminal past as strongly as I expected. Kirkwall was that sort of city; you couldn’t cling to golden principles for very long and survive. It ate away at you, the stone wall’s vociferous in the cynicism they fostered. Its people were survivors, strong by stepping on the shoulders of others. 

The smallest part of me wanted to write to Elhan, but I wondered at what to say. How to even find him. How much to tell. What he would do in response. My brother, always the stronger of us two – would he let me be? Here with someone who was once a stranger, submerged beneath shemlen books and customs? If he asked me to leave, did I want to? Could I walk away from this knowledge, and from these feelings that I was only beginning to experience?

The touches are gentle at first. I am bolder than Caspen by far. But sometimes, he comes home to find my head on the desk over a book, sleep tickling at my consciousness, and I feel his fingers at my temple, brushing hair back from my eyes and lingered over my ears. The next day, he sits on the couch next to me, closer than he used to, and our thighs press together.

When he is gone, I feel an insistent nagging, an urgency that tells me I need to see him again. I think that I am finally learning of the kind of all-consuming interest Elhan bragged about.

We eat together, and when I look up Caspen’s dark ocean eyes are on my face. He goes to say something, flushes, looks down, and the uncertainty is different in him. Less familiar than his assured descriptions of far-off lands and unknown pasts.

When we finally make love, it is not the slow and tentative dance that I imagined, but the snapping point of a string pulled taut, unable to bear more tension. Its fast and when it’s over Caspen apologizes and I laugh.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” My voice is lilting, thick, and I haven’t heard it this way in a long time. Maybe never.

He laughs then and brushes my hair back from my face, kisses my forehead.

We continue on together, and I pick up work from notice boards and overheard conversations. I make the best of the contacts I’d gained under Athenril. I turn night-time forays into expensive houses into money for our coffers, and Caspen is able to have more than he has ever had before. The thoughts of my clan fade away, and it is good to be outside again, active and alive in these streets I’ve come to know so well. 

“You’re so strong,” Caspen whispers to me one night, running a hand along the supple muscle of my arm. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s my dashing good lucks and irrepressible charm.” I smile at him, eyes crinkling.

He laughs; it’s breathy and low.

“Well, that’s the truth. You have me charmed.” 

His kisses are warm and familiar, a well-read book where the ending doesn’t change.

But the idyllic pall that fell over my life inevitably fades. We are going nowhere, and I have read everything. I am done with well-to-do nobles and their petty needs. Caspen brings us little money, sells what artefacts he unearths, but just as often is swindled by a merchant who’s too good at doing what I do.

“Where is your _ambition_?” 

He doesn’t meet my gaze. Keeps writing. Thinks his publications on the lower left vein of a genlock will thrust him out of obscurity, make his a name worth saying. Never mind that his previous publications have passed largely unacknowledged. 

“Caspen, there has to be more than this.”

He never answers when I’m firm. It’s not our first attempt at this conversation. I leave, grab a drink with friends at the tavern and come home drunk and just as angry. But when I come home, he tells me that he is so close, needs just a little more research before his ground-breaking treatise will be complete. 

“Lord Bannen has a copy of the text I need. In his private collection. But I’ve appealed time and again and it hasn’t worked out.”

I don’t even hesitate. “I’ll get it for you. He lives in Hightown?”

Caspen tries to stop me, but the seed is planted and the next day he has a copy. When he realises how easy it was, how I can sink into shadow and go entirely unseen, he gets bolder in his requests. Blood of the shrike, preserved in a noble’s curio case. A rare gem, brought up from the dark roads and seldom sold in our markets. A scrap of the metal that killed the archdemon of the Fifth Blight, or so the sign at the museum claimed. He was happier with these things, and I enjoyed the thrill of the clandestine, of working for myself and my love instead of someone with a heavy drawstring purse and trivial needs.

But one day I came home to smashed bookshelves, broken glass, and blood on the sheets. Caspen was gone.

I hit the streets in search and asked everyone I knew. When I returned home again, there was a letter waiting for me.

_Starlight._

He’d found Athenril’s pet name adorable. At first I spat at its mention, told him I didn’t want to be reminded of her. But the poetry of it had always made me feel pretty. My vanity won out, I suppose. 

_I suppose it was only a matter of time before our ways caught up with us. They want you to bring gold, and the following tomes to the Hightown Market at midnight tonight. Please do so. They will kill me if you don’t.  
C._

I grabbed the books he’d scrawled across the bottom of the page and pocketed what gold we had. There was no choice here. And because I wasn’t sure how final this interaction would be, I packed my travel satchel too, carried this notebook, the moon carving of my father’s that I’d saved, my old bedroll.

Trying to write about it now, it’s hard piece together what transpired in the tucked away corner of the Hightown market square. I remember a smell of olives and sun, the kind of scent you learn from bazaar merchants who give names to novel flavours.

And then I was waking up, wrists tied behind my back somewhere dank and cold. My knives and pack were gone, but I seemed unhurt, only discomfited. As I tried to tuck my arms out of the knots, I sighed. Gas of some kind. Something I’ve never seen before. Knocked me flat and left my head filled with fog.

“Your boyfriend is gone.” There’s a voice on the other side of a wooden door I hadn’t seen in the gloom. The door opens and there’s a man, broad across the shoulders, clad in leather armour with a blade at his waist. Light pools in from the hallway behind him and from the dust and the stench I assume we are somewhere in the labyrinth that lies beneath Lowtown, the inner veins of the darkest part of the city.

“What did you do to him?” I spit, wresting myself onto my knees.

“Do to him?” He laughs. “He was all too happy to take off once you’d made the drop. Spindly pillow-biting bugger. I didn’t even get a tickling to kill him.”

“You’re lying.” My denial was immediate, but I blanched when he laughed even harder.

“Aren’t you a precious thing?” His kneels in front of me, gloved hand reaching out to rub my cheek, and I made to bite at his fingers. He flinched back, and then backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling.

“I wasn’t going to keep you. People’s always trouble. Feeding, moving, selling – too much trouble.” 

Hassle. That’s what Athenril had said.

“But then I saw your ears and got thinking.” His eyes are cold, shiny in the dark. “I got a friend who likes an elven girl, all trussed up and pretty like.”  
I snarled and leapt at him again, but he straightened and knocked me down with a boot.

“Buggered if I understand it. Wild animals, the lot of you. Couldn’t pay me to stuff you with my cock.” The door slammed and a bolt fell shut as he retreated. Then, that smell of olives again, and darkness.

*

All anyone needs to knows of what came after is that the thug who captured me spoke truly. There was a man, and he did like his elven girls trussed and bound. He paid for me, and all my possessions. He read my journal, mocked me with my past with acerbic words that contradicted his soft, untried hands. Venom and sin fell from his lips, working in tandem with gossamer fingers, touching softly, smoothly, making my body betray me as poison rage ran through my veins. He was rich, had a glorious house and an entourage of elven servants. 

He ogled me as he ran my mother’s dagger across my skin. He slid the moon token my father whittled across his lips and left it out in front of me, daring me to take comfort in it as I once had. When he left, I curled my fingers around the token, and tried to do just that to spite him. There was a word for this, for what he did to me over and over again, a specific, vile word in both human and elven because some depravity is so base that it’s an insidious part of everything that lives. I turned inward, tried to be away when he was here, on me, near me, in me.

But one day he got careless, overconfident in his ability to control me. I had wondered once, after my father died, if I could kill for vengeance.  
I learned that I could do more than kill. I eviscerated. 

And then I packed up my belongings, my journal, my mother’s dagger and my father’s totem, and I slipped through a window, scaled the stone wall in the way I had a hundred times before on one fancy villa or another.

When my feet touched the ground, I realised I had no sense of time. Up there, in that room with heavy blue curtains and lush scents, I had no sense of when or where or how long. It was nighttime, and I was spattered in viscera knowing only one thing. I needed to leave Kirkwall.

*  
_The woods are lonely, dark and deep._ But they felt like home. 

I found a grove beneath a cliff where my clan had once camped for months. No evidence suggested that an entire band of elves had once stationed aravel and raised halla in and amongst the stone, but I remembered the looming oaks that Elhan and I had climbed.

It was up in one of those trees that I’d spend my nights at first. I’d been moving for days until then, desperate to make distance between Kirkwall and myself. But these were familiar trees, the ones for which I was named, and the memory of a younger version of myself, happy in the canopy with a brother and a father who cared persuaded me to stay a while and listen. I felt safer wedged between greenery and bark. I hoisted fallen tree limbs up into the space, bracing them against the existing network of ancient branches, cushioning myself with a bedroll. I lost myself in the sound of the forest around me, the chitter of squirrels and songs of birds that searched out mates and scared away rivals.  
In the tree I began to write again as well. Caspen may have been gone. May have betrayed me to save his own skin. But he had taught me that there was a comfort it acknowledging my life, in this small way. That words unwritten would turn into festering thoughts. Putting something on a page purged them from my mind where they rattled around without resolution. Sometimes I’d poise my hand to write and nothing would come, and sometimes, I could only chart the words of old Dalish songs, archaic poetry and the promise of a future radically different from our present.

One morning, after I’d gathered nuts and berries for breakfast, I heard voices in the clearing below. They were human men, hunters by their garb, and I stayed perfectly still. They made camp in the shadow of the escarpment wall, recognizing, as my clan had, that the geography provided natural protection from the elements and the wildlife. I listened absently to their chatter from my tree, speculations on marriage prospects, careful inventory of their rations. I half-smiled at their protestations over the absence of game – how could they expect to catch anything when they traipsed around like Ferelden soldiers in full battle armour, the clank of their boots reverberating through the woods?

They were gone by the next day and I tentatively slipped out of my tree, padded over to the ashes they’d left in their wake. I knelt by the fire and thought on their simple words. Worries about the coming winter; one had lamented his arthritic bones and as I looked at the stormy sky, I echoed his fears of dropping temperatures. 

“Are you missing human contact? Or does the solitude suit you?”

I spun, daggers out, dropping into a battle stance and backing up to keep the cliff at my back. A woman, elven, long dark hair in braids and a soft smile on her face. No vallaslin. A mage’s staff on her back and forest green and brown robes, inlaid with scrolling stitched patterns I didn’t recognize.

“Calm, child,” her voice is music, low and flowing, and her tone tries to smooth away my fear. “I simply wish to speak. I been watching you for several days now.”

“I saw no sign of you.” I speak and my own voice surprises me. It’s loud, nothing like the fluid melody of her own. It’s raw with disuse and self-imposed silence.

She laughs, a sound like the susurration of water over rocks.

“I have been living this way for much longer than you, my dear. To lose myself in the woods is nothing.”

My stance does not lighten. I try to back up further, but I cannot.

“I knew your father, lethallan.” Her elvish sends memories jumbling through my veins; I had not heard the language of my people for years. “I often watched Clan Lavellan as you made your home in this very grove.”

I soften slightly then, but still say nothing. Her gestures are disarming, hands out, palms up and away from her staff, but I am wary of the faults of trusting to soon.

“You have your father’s eyes.” Words that I knew were true. The dark hue like the colour of ivy as it wormed its way up city walls. A Kirkwall memory for such a simple thing as a shade of green. I shook my head, sent the thoughts scattering.

“Who are you?”

“I am Marethan. The humans call me a witch of the woods.” She smiles, disarms my fears and I try desperately to hold to my slipping resolve, to keep my distrust in place. “I enjoyed your Clan’s hospitality on more than one occasion. Keeper Deshanna and your father traded food and a place to rest for the information I could bring.”  
“Why are you here?”

“Where else should I be?” She gestures to the trees around us. “An elf without a clan, what more do I need? A mage without a keeper, what hope do I have in a city?”

At the darkening of my expression, she comes to understand that I too have had my full of cities. 

“Come, lethallan. Let us find peace in the presence of another for a time.”

I feel my commitment to suspicion flee. She has put me at ease, and I drop, but do not sheath, my daggers as I fall in step beside her. She is older, I observe from the lines that spiderweb around her eyes and mouth, but she is slight, only a fraction taller than I am and endowed with a willowy grace I could never hope to match.  
Her eyes, blue and clear, are trained on me, bright with intelligence as she tells me of her past. Offering up her story as a goodwill gesture, an attempt to ease the tension that obviously haunts me.

Marethan was a child with magic, born into a clan with too many mages already. They tried to find a place for here. Never did. Cast her out and let her make her own way. She was captured by Templars, escaped, made a life for herself in the woods. Gathered herbs and made ointments and salves that she traded with small town shem who did not fear her. Met up with other clans when she saw them, traded stories and news for company.

She recounts her past without judgement. She does not condemn her clan as callous, understanding, I think, that it was simply part of their way. I think back on my own life, my experiences in Kirkwall too, and again am thankful I was not born with a mage’s fizzling connection to the Fade.  
Marethan takes me to her current home.

“A nook in the woods,” she calls it with a smile, and I am enchanted by the dyed animal hide drapery that adorns the cave, creating a sense of walls and home, while concealing the interior from prying eyes. A solidly built fire pit warns off predators near the entrance, and within she has herbs hung out to dry, jars labelled in slanted script, even a few books with folded down corners pointing to favourite pages.

“Stay with me a while?” She turns to me, her intonation a slight question. “I hunger for company that can speak and share stories.”

“Do you have any other kind of company?”

She laughs then. “Sharp girl. Indeed I do, though you must promise not to be alarmed.” 

We move deeper into the cave, and she gestures to a dark back corner of the cave. In the gloom, I make out movement, the steady in-out of breath through a furry frame.  
“Faolan. Come here.” 

A shaggy head in the dark and golden eyes meet mine. I’m in my battle stance in an instant as the large wolf saunters over. But again Marethan is laughing and she rests slim fingers on my wrist, asking me to be at ease.

“Faolan will do you no harm. We have known many roads together, and he is my staunchest ally.”

Suddenly, I did remember this woman. A source of wonder, even to my own people, with her large grey wolf and the ability to spin stories that we could almost see before our eyes.

“You’re the storyteller. The one who serves Fen’harel.”’

Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.

“I knew I made an impression. You were so young when last we met, but I’ll never forget your eyes. Your father, your brother and you, all so serious when you listened.”  
“But Fen'harel….” The Dread Wolf, a trickster and a pair among our gods. The question was implicit in the apprehension on my face – how can you serve a betrayer god? One who sealed away his brothers and sisters, doomed our people to a godless world? I don’t know that the thoughts were mine, unsure in my beliefs as I was. But they were the knee-jerk reaction to childhood stories, told in my Keeper’s voice with the appropriate amount of fear and respect due to any god, fallen or not.

“When I escaped from the Templars,” Marethan’s voice was prompt now, and she swung her staff forward to lean on it, “they corned me near Lake Calenhad. They have weapons and tools that render magic useless; my normal defenses failed me, but I would have rather died than lived a life in Kinloch Hold.”

“Kinloch Hold?” We are sitting now; she’d eased me down by her side at the mouth of the cave, and though I keep a wary eye on Faolan, he seemed to have lost interest in me. Sits next to Marethan, licks his paws and nuzzles into her hand as she rubs behind his ears.

“An empty place rife with corruption and sorrow. A mage Circle.” Faolan growls softly at the words, golden eyes closed. It won’t be the first time that I think to myself – it’s like he understands what we’re saying.

“They would have killed me. I would have let them.” Marethan’s brings her right palm up, and a small flame puffs into existence. “I was prepared to die because I had been born this way.”

She meets my eyes then, pale blue on verdant green, like the place where the sky meets the rolling treetop canopy.

“Faolan saved me. He bounded out of the woods and killed the two Templars.”

“He has a strong moral compass.” I comment, eyes appraising the large animal.

Marethan smiles softly. “Indeed. I knew there could be no clearer sign. I was indebted to a servant of Fen’harel, had no choice but to become one myself. It has served us both well, I think.”

“He Who Hunts Alone,” I said wryly as I watched Marethan stroke the wolf’s fur. “Not so lonely anymore?”

The older elf smiles.

“No indeed.”

*  
From Marethan, I learn how to cook. My life in Kirkwall was fed on stolen bread, leave-the-pot-on-all-day soup and purchased meals. At Caspen’s, I’d mastered the basics only. Frying an egg, boiling potatoes - I’d made it pretty far with an impressive lack of culinary ability, really. But somehow, the uncivilized press of the Planesene Forest made for a better kitchen than any home I’d known.

Marethan made spices from ground elfroot and tree scrapings. She brewed tea with a collection of just the right petals and roots. She skinned a rabbit faster than any hunter I’d known, and let the meat sit deep in the cave, somewhere cool and dark, soaking in the flavours of a seasoning and broth she’d prepared.

It was all highly unconventional. I was used to foraging for nuts, smearing my fingers with berry juice and maybe a little pheasant on a stick for dinner. This flavouring and spicing resisted me at first.

“Oh… my.” Ever the optimist, Marethan winced as she sipped at my ‘soup’. “It’s… flavourful.”

I took a sip and then stood, spluttering it out and all over. Faolan, who had been contently curled up against my legs, sniffed at the mess and growled lowly.

“It’s a lost cause.” My tone was final, discouragement in my slumped shoulders and sense of defeat.

Marethan laughed and stood next to me.

“It will take some doing, I admit.” The faint lines around her mouth deepened as she suppressed a smile at my dejection. “But we will get you there.”

She raised a hand as if to pat my shoulder, but froze as I flinched away. 

“Ah, my apologies.” She knew, by now, that the prospect of contact put me on edge. She bustled on. “Nothing a little smoked spindleweed can’t solve, isn’t that right dear?”

As she puttered around the cave, I retreated into myself. I needed Marethan, I’d realized only hours after meeting her. That realization had prompted me to stay as days turned to weeks and weeks into seasons. She was slow, patient, undemanding as she taught me her ways and we wandered south for the winter.

She knew, from the very first day we met, that something plagued me. I woke suddenly that night, cold sweat and terror on my face as she pulled me into her arms.

“Hush now,” she cooed, cradling me gently and then I was crying against her shoulder, into her silvery hair. “You were screaming.” Her voice was warm, soft beside my ear.

All those nights alone after Kirkwall, I hadn’t shed a tear. As I dreamed night after night of his face and his hands, I’d awoken petrified and still, alone in a tree, a gully, a cave, with rampant thoughts and dry, empty eyes. And yet now, at the first promise of a semblance of normalcy, of contact with the world, emotions I couldn’t name clutched at my soul and crumbled my resolve.

“Hush,” Marethan said again, hands stroking my hair. “There is no one here but us, darling. You are safe.” 

I tried to believe her. But as my sobbing gave way to ragged breaths the pressure of fingers on my skin, at my shoulder, in my hair was suddenly fire. I screamed and shoved at him, stumbling to my feet. As I ran from the camp, it was his voice melting in my ears.

“Ellana dear, don’t run!” 

Marethan found me in the morning, curled up in the root network of an ancient oak.

“Get him away,” I whimpered, hands wrapped around my head, knees up against my chest.

“Oh child,” she knelt, but kept her distance. Faolan sat at her side, head cocked. “He was never here. He cannot hurt you in this place, with us.”

“I…I _killed_ him.” My voice cracked. My lips were so dry.

Her voice is certain when she answers. “Good.”

“He can’t be here.” 

“No, he cannot.” She was so sure, and I wanted to believe. 

Faolan approached, nuzzled softly against my hands.

“Come, child. It is a beautiful day. We will move on.”

I looked up between my fingers. She was kneeling, but did not move towards me, steely blue eyes steady as they met my own. We will move on. So sure, and I wanted to believe her.

I uncurled, wincing at the twinge of my back against a knot in the roots. 

“Let’s go then.” I try to smile, hand on Faolan’s neck as he helps me to my feet.

*  
The nightmares continue, but I’ve learned slow my heartbeat when I wake. Some nights, it’s him, and he’s soft and seductive, merciless in his torture. Other days, it’s a haunting pink aura and a voice that’s both smooth and jagged. The desire demon and my father’s blood on my hands, my face. 

Instead of consolation in a hug or whispered words, Marethan makes me tea and tells me stories. Her own versions on old Dalish legends. Snapshots of the Fifth Blight and the Hero of Ferelden. The story of Andraste and her revolution. It’s easy to sit back and listen to words about far off versions of our world. She sings old melodies in a haunting full voice and invites me to sing along.

My cooking improves, I am happy to say, and soon it becomes something to lose myself in, addictive in the same the way that Kirkwall’s taverns had presented a sweet release from attentiveness. I spend longer than is strictly necessary over our campfire, experimenting with seasoning, perfecting just how long to knead the dough before the perfect bannock emerges. Poultices and blends of tea also join my arsenal of skills, and there seems to be no limit to Marethan’s knowledge. And slowly, my capacity for human contact returns, and I let Marethan braid my hair or rest a hand on my shoulder.

I tell stories of my own, at first sticking to words out of Caspen’s collection. But when that fount runs dry, I fall into words about my own life, my family and clan. The death of my father.

“I didn’t realise.” Marethan said, in the stillness of the night, our eyes trained to the flames of our campfire. “She said she would be back for you?”

“She did, and at first that worried me. But Thrask said it was likely a ploy. Words to keep me up at night.” I didn’t mention that they did, sometimes, come back in the nighttime with a verve that unsettled me. I rubbed my arms against the chill, and leaned back into Faolan’s warm side. He growled contentedly. 

“Hmm.” Marethan seemed unconvinced by Thrask’s assessment. Once, that would have worried me. But I remembered our encounter a fortnight earlier. A group of Ferelden vagabonds mistook us for an easy target. I didn’t even have time to unsheathe my daggers. Marethan’s staff was out, her feet moving and fire flying. When we spoke of my father, I thought back to the charred remains of those bandits and decided that even a demon of desire could be burned. 

It had been a while since I’d seen human death, I realised after the bandits. As she rifled through their pockets in the aftermath, I’d looked down at my hands and remembered the carnage they had caused in that room with the dark blue drapes. 

I carved a man’s heart out with these hands.

He was not a man though, Marethan said, in response to a scream that woke us both up in the night. One of my screams. She said, quite firmly, that he was not a man. Not really. He was the lowest form of life, below animal, elf, and human, a creature satisfied in ill-gotten power who pleasured in the oppression of others. Such life forms were not the product of intelligent design; no Maker or Creator would will such a thing into the world.

No, Marethan had said. 

“Such beings are mistakes. Accidental consequences of poorly thought out actions, damaged beyond repair. The world is a better place without them.”  
I could never feel guilt for what I did to him. But neither could I speak of him. 

“We are nearly at the Brecilian Forest.” I say, one day as we walk and Marethan gently asks me about it all. My tone was overbright.

“Ellana,” Marethan caught up to me, fingers on my elbow. “You must acknowledge your past. There will be other moments where you face questions. There will be a time when you need to be free of these memories.”

“I am.” I spread my hands, unsure what the gesture is supposed to convey. “I am fine.”

“One day there will be others – a touch you want to feel.”

“And that will be lovely. I’m sure he’ll be strapping and tall, the perfect gentleman.”

“Ellana,” her tone insistent.

“Let’s go,” I insist in return. “We’re losing light!”

She sighed, and quickened her pace to keep up with me.

*  
I see the signs, clear as the blue of a cloudless sky, and wait for Marethan to say something. She looks at me, and there is sadness in her expression, but also acceptance.

“Marethan.” I move towards her, the soft leather armour we had fashioned together shifting. I pull her into my arms, and she returns the hug tightly.

“You are certain that it is time? That you can go back to them?”

Araval treads in the mud and a curious absence of game. We are being watched, and we both know which clan is in the woods this time of year. Though we had never spoken of it, we both knew that our journey south to the Brecilian Forest was for my benefit. To find my clan.

“I am ready to do so because of you.” I loved this woman, her patient ways and able hands. Her support and the way she tries not to smile when I burn our bread and let fly a string of curses that betray my varied upbringing.

“You would have been fine. On your own.” She steps back and takes my hands. “You are strong, Ellana.”

“Stronger for having known you.” I smile and do not try to brush the tears from my eyes. “You will not stay with us? I am not certain they will even have me back.”  
She smiles and her blue eyes sparkle. 

“Then we had best not push our luck.” She releases my hand, and Faolan, sensing their departure, stands.

“Goodbye, Faolan.” I rub the wolf behind the ears, and he nuzzles my palm with his nose. 

“Ellana,” Marethan’s hands now grip her staff. “You must tell someone. Your Keeper. Your brother. Someone.”

I do not look up from the wolf when I answer.

“I will try.”

“Good.” She sweeps by me, grace and wisdom her effortless companions. “Come Faolan. Let’s go find dinner. These Lavellan’s have sacred off all the game.”

She leaves and I fall to my knees.

“Keeper Deshanna. I ask for your…”

My voice failed. What did I want? Forgiveness? Had I transgressed? 

“For your blessing.”

I dropped my gaze and listened as the stillness shifted. I knew they were conferring, pondering over the exchange between myself and Marethan. Though my clan had hosted Marethan before, a servant of Fen’harel could never truly be trusted. It was a belief I had been raised with, had cast away in the face of Marethan’s palpable goodness.

“Our daughter, Ellana.”

Keeper Deshanna was in front of me, hands open and face warm. “It has been too long.” She brushed hair back from my forehead and put her fingers beneath my chin.  
“We will have much to discuss.”

*  
For fifteen years of my life, these faces were the only ones I had truly known. Lorien with his cat-like poise and sharp eyes. Miriel, now my brother’s partner and as golden-haired as I remembered. Elhan, Elhan who crushed me against him when he returned from his hunt, oblivious to my sudden stillness and hasty retreat. Elhan who didn’t stop talking, whose energy was infectious, who kept me up with question after question.

The Clan collectively mourned my father. But amidst their appropriately solemn words, a part of me sensed a latent satisfied pride, the smirk of an I-told-you-said that no one voiced but everyone thought. The horrors I had endured were the inevitable consequence of straying too far from Dalish ways, and I had never even told them the worst of it. But I saw the judgement in their mannerisms and their guarded ways with me. 

At first I wondered at how they’d changed. At why I felt a little sad, alone, when Elhan was out on the hunt. But slowly, I thought on Marethan’s words, are you certain that it is time? A question about me, not about my Clan. They were the same as they had always been. I was the one who would never be truly Dalish again.

I had picked the locks on Hightown mansions. Knocked guards flat with tripwires or knives. Seduced a bartenders into parting with secrets. Stolen ancient tomes and killed slavers in the name of wiping out the competition. Had watched Templars shorten the leashes on their mages, while reading about distant kingdoms where mages ruled.

I knew how to swear in six different languages and could tell the difference between cheap Orlesian pilsner and a Fereldan lager. I could juggle knives for coins and do a backflip off a building. I watched a demon tear my father apart and had lived in even greater isolation than my clansmen. To do it all and then be here, in the Brecilian Forest, stationary for the moment… I felt as if time had stopped.

Elhan felt my restlessness.

“Ellana. You must stay.” We sat side by side beneath a tree and watched his toddler crawl its way toward its mother. Her mother, I correct myself mentally. It was a girl, with her mother’s blond locks and our dark eyes.

“Maybe soon the Keeper will ask about vallaslin.” His tone is hopeful, but from the way he won’t meet my eyes, I know that he is just as aware as I am. Just as certain that this, whatever I have now, will not last.

He looked down then, at the journal in my hand.

“What happened to Caspen?” His face, agile eyes and high cheekbones, raises to meet my eyes. “He certainly gave you enough notebooks to last you a lifetime of journaling.”

“I took a few with me when I left him.” I run my hand over the leather bound notebook, and look away from Elhan’s intense gaze.

“I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to buy my own. He had so many he wasn’t using.”

In my head a different story plays, my frantic packing as I went to meet his kidnappers in the Hightown market. My hands shaking at the prospect of losing him. The stupid concerns of a stupid girl.

“Caspen was a fool.” My hands clench shut into fists. “A selfish fool.”

And maybe a dead one, a part of my mind insists. How trustworthy was the information I had, after all? Perhaps he’d never even made it out of those Lowtown dungeons where I’d been briefly held.

“Did he hurt you?” Elhan’s voice, usually effusive, is soft now. I meet his eyes and smile, recognize that he cares, is trying to help.

“No. He didn’t.”

We look over to Mariah, watch her play in the leaves as her mother stands off to the side, observing as her deft fingers thoughtlessly weave a basket out of reeds. The wind rustles Miriel’s hair, and I look back to my brother.

“Mariah is very beautiful.” I smile. “Father was right. You belong here, Elhan.”

“So do you,” his tone is pleading and he knows it is too late.

When Keeper Deshanna asks for a volunteer to spy at the Conclave, it’s as if the whole clan knows that this is no question at all. I almost wonder if she is providing me an out, concocting a mission to have me leave and the Clan restored to balance. No one is surprised when I stand.

“It would be my honour, Keeper Deshanna”


	3. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rotating POVs and third person begin here and will continue on going forward.

_The apparition of these faces in the crowd:_  
_Petals on a wet, black bough_

*  
When Ellana wakes, it is with the type of panic she has tried for so long to stifle. Her wrists are tied – she’s back in the room with the blue drapes and his face, his hands and his – 

“Finally.” The voice, firm, accented, feminine but low breaks her out of the memory and now she becomes aware of her limbs, tries to stand. A firm hand on her shoulder sends her crashing back to her knees.

“No. You go nowhere.”

The woman’s presence radiates determination and energy and her face, pale, scarred and beautiful is inches from Ellana’s. “Who are you, really? What did you do at the Conclave?”

Ellana can’t think, the pressure on her wrists is suffocating her, and her mind is nothing but fog and pain.  
“Cassandra, give her space.” A second voice and another face emerges from the shadows, a long supple form and fitted chain mail beneath blue eyes and red hair. 

“Ellana, can you tell us what happened?”

“I don’t know what happened.” Her voice is dry and she doesn’t wonder at how these people know her name. If they have her here, in chains, they know everything about her. Her notebooks, after all, were in her pack, and her pack is nowhere to be seen. She feels the blood drain from her face and her breathing becomes shallow – these people, these strangers must know more about her than she has ever told anyone. The words in her journal could not have gone unread, not when suspicion is so evident in their actions. 

She looks between their faces – one an expressionless mask beneath red hair, betraying nothing, the other full of simmering rage barely contained behind dark eyes – and wishes she could take the knowledge back, wishes they knew nothing more than what they could see. An elf, slight, dark hair falling around her shoulders, braided back in places from her face. Green eyes, almond shaped and just a little too large to be human. She wishes she could be seen for who she is, not for what she has experienced.

“The Conclave exploded.” Cassandra is unrelenting and her fury is palpable. Obviously, experiences trump sensory evidence in this instance. “Everyone is dead.”

Ellana met her eyes then, dark green on steely blue.

“All of those people… gone?” She looks to the other woman, and the redhead nods in confirmation. “How?”  
Cassandra makes a frustrated noise and wrenches Ellana up to her feet.

“Leliana, get to the forward camp. We will meet you there.” They turn as the other woman disappears. “It will be easier to show you.”

The breach lights the sky like so many exploding stars and it takes her moments to register what Cassandra is saying. How is that all that remains of the Conclave, and of the many delegations that sought to end the mage-Templar rebellion? Ellana listens intently until pain blossoms in her palm.

“What –” her words are cut off in a strangled cry, and she’s on her knees, knives shredding along the insides of her veins as the green mark pulses. This is pain inside her, a lifeforce trying to crawl its way out of her hand and she wonders what it is Cassandra is saying. Her lips are moving but there is only roaring white noise.

This pain. They can lessen it, maybe, if they make their way to the rift. Taking Cassandra on faith, Ellana follows. The townsfolk watch closely as she staggers by, and Ellana finds herself lamenting her pointed ears, just visible under dark hair. But then, Cassandra informs her that it is more than that.

“They blame you,” the taller woman states. Their distrust becomes hot on Ellana’s skin, suddenly tangible; their eyes accuse, and she cannot remember if she’s ever received this much attention at once.

“ _You_ blame me and they follow suit.” Ellana holds Cassandra’s gaze, eyes burning.

Cassandra shrugs. “You are the only survivor. If you are not responsible, who is?”

Ellana makes a frustrated noise, says nothing. The cold bites at her through her human armour, and she just wants to get this fissure in her hand gone. She can feel it, even when it is not alight, and the sensation of a presence in between her fingers is surreal. As Cassandra forges on through the gates and up the hill, Ellana follows and tries to summon the green light. To her surprise, it bends to her will, flashes forward with her wants, and recedes when she curls her fingers, wishing it gone. She slips her glove back on, an action made challenging by the metal bonds at her wrists. Metal bonds, so unlike the silken ties that held her down for days. 

“Demon!”

Ellana is grateful for the distraction. More grateful still when the demon nearly kills her, if only because her brush with death brings Cassandra to her senses.

“I suppose it is foolish to keep these on.” A key twists and the bonds fall away. Ellana’s relief spreads through her posture and her spine straightens. 

“As if they were really holding me back from killing you.”

Cassandra freezes in her retreat, then looks back. Ellana smiles, and it’s lopsided and so charming that Cassandra almost smiles back.

“Little elf, you couldn’t touch me if you tried.”

It’s not long after that that Cassandra concedes that, yes, maybe some form of weapon would be reasonable given the hoards of demons that plague the valley.

Ellana’s never killed a demon before. She has only one very bad memory of one. She’s pleased when she discovers they die the same way men do, the only difference in the colour of the guts spewing out. She thinks back to her late night chats with Marethan; the older elf worried that the desire demon who killed her father would return. When Ellana’s blade finds purchase in the swirling green mist of a demonic creature, she begins to think that maybe the desire demon should return, if only so she can hear it scream beneath her blades.

“You’re not bad.” Cassandra observes, and then flushes as she realises she’s basically praising a suspected terrorist. 

“Well,” Ellana wrenches her dagger out of a demon’s stomach. Observes the taller woman, her blood spattered face and blade soaked in gore. “You’re pretty handy yourself.”

“Enough talk.” Brusque and down to business, Cassandra turns and follows. 

The light in her hand surges and for a moment Ellana knows only pain. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the feeling is gone.

“Back to work,” she agrees.

*  
_Maker’s balls_ , he thinks as he loads a bolt into Bianca, sending it ripping through a demon poised to rend open Cassandra’s back. It’s like Hawke never left. The elf practically dances between the demons; she is rapid-fire a blur of steel and purpose, dodging instead of blocking because really, who could possibly pin down something that fast?

He had seen the so-called traitor only in fleeting glances. Ever-curious, he’d tippy-toed amongst the humans, trying to see above the mill of people who swarmed Haven’s gate when the guards returned from the smoking temple. Damning his pride, he hopped up on a crate to get view that wasn’t all backsides and drab cloth. 

“Take her to Adan’s hut.” Curly’s voice, firm and commanding and Varric thinks that he’s impressed with the man, so different now from the deferent knight who simpered beneath Meredith’s reign until it was virtually impossible to deny her insanity. Now he stood tall, hand on his sword, and order folks about with effortless ease.  
“She’s smaller than I expected.” Varric mutters to the woman he knows is lurking behind him.

“We knew she was an elf.” Leliana’s hands are on her hips as she watches the guards follow Cullen. The elf is slight, a jumble of dark hair and ash-covered armour. Her face is indistinct at this distance.

“Still,” Varric murmurs, “you’d think a blast that big would have no trouble wiping out something so small.”

“Coming from a man standing on a crate so that he can see over the heads of women?”

He kicks her in the arm gently.

“Stuff it, Nightingale.”

And yet he is still here, blasting the demons back into the Fade with his crossbow. And the elf that’s pulling acrobatic flips as she pulls out of a demon’s range is so different from that small huddle of dirt and dust that the guard’s laid up in Adan’s hut that he almost wonders if it’s the same person. She’s alive with an energy that reads in her brow, furrowed in concentration as she sweeps up and through a demon’s guard, going in for an easy kill.

Varric grunts, tears his eyes away and takes out the last demon with a bolt through the throat. Or, well, where a throat would be on any normal creature anyway. He flips Bianca then, fluidly swings her onto his back and moves towards the traitor.

“Well, I’m just about ready for a snack.”

But his words are lost as Solas moves fluidly to her side. He takes her wrist and her posture tenses, her mouth opening to object. But quickly, Solas brings their hands up, and the world turns an intense, shifting shade of green. Distantly, Varric thinks he hears the elf scream and then a sound like sharp thunder rips through the air and the rift is _gone_. Just… gone.

“Maker’s balls.” He’s said it aloud this time. Ellana turns, pulling her wrist out of Solas’ grasp. Even Cassandra is floored – all of them hoped but none of them really believed that there would be a solution. That she would be the solution  
.  
“It seems your mark is more than just a link to the Breach.” Solas’ voice is thoughtful. “You can bend the fabric of the veil to your will.”

The traitor – or saviour? – is scanning her palm and says nothing. Could use a smile, Varric decides.

“That’s all fine and dandy, Chuckles.” Chuckles, he decides, is a good one for the mystical bugger, all vague assertions this and ominous portents that. “But I think we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Ellana, this is Varric Tethras. An… associate.” Cassandra’s hesitation brings a smirk to his lips. 

“She kidnapped me and brought me here against my will.”

“You are welcome to leave at any time,” she turns on him, annoyance in her posture and he can’t help but keep pushing her buttons. 

“I would, but the view is just so lovely.” He gestures to the yawning maw of emerald light in the sky, and smiles.

“If introductions are to be made,” Solas’ buttery voice interjects, and Varric’s spared another exasperated response from the Seeker. “Then I am Solas. I oversaw your treatment after the explosion.”

“And by that he means he kept you alive while that thing on your hand tried to eat you.” Varric clarifies. “ _And_ kept Cassandra from killing you. No small feat.”

Ellana smiles at that, looking up to meet Solas eyes. “Then I owe you my thanks. I can’t imagine that was easy.” 

Is it just Varric’s imagination, or did she peek at Cassandra as she said that? Her voice isn’t what he expected. It’s feminine, lilting but not accented the way Merril’s had been. And she’s missing the tattoos to pretty up her face with some exoticism. Varric wonders who she is, really. 

He knows that Leliana has most of the answers and is working on the rest; she’d summarized the elf’s pages and pages down to a two page report for the head honchos. The girl had kept a diary for Maker’s sake. There’s no better honeypot for a woman who needs information the way their spymaster did. But of course, Varric knows it’s more complicated than that. The question then becomes – is it true? Is it part of the scheme? Did she plan this all along, write a bunch of fake backstory to build a bullshit plot for her life? Looking at her now, arms crossed as she sinks her weight into one hip, he’s not sure he can imagine it. 

She’s got blood on her cheek, and she’s attractive in an elfy kind of way, a little ethereal and a little not-so-human in the shape of her eyes, the slant of her high cheekbones. Intense eyes that remind him of Fenris, but a crooked smile that’s all Hawke. If she’d written her own story, he could see why. He could certainly write a story with her at the centre.

The Breach above them howls, and suddenly she’s on her knees, grasping her hand to her chest as green light plays off the planes of her face. When the light fades, Solas moves to help her stand, but she flinches back, gets to her feet on her own. Her face is drawn and sweat beads on her brow.

“We must move on.” Cassandra’s voice, all business. “Leliana is waiting for us at the forward camp.”

“Oh good. Bianca is just about ready for some lunch.”

*  
Cassandra hates being wrong. She thwacks her sword into the practice dummy and then grunts in frustration when it connects with the wooden supporting post, sinks in and gets stuck. With an irritated noise, she takes her hands off the hilt and puts them on her hips, stomping towards the cliff side that overlooks the lake. Her deep exhalations mist in the cold morning air.

“Something troubling you?”

She turns and its Cullen behind her, head cocked slightly and face free from judgement. His arms are crossed over polished breastplate, and she is again silently impressed with Josephine’s choice in his cloak. The reds and browns lend him a gravitas their troops need to see. She sighs. She doesn’t want to talk about it. He should know better.

“She better not die.” It’d been three days and Lavellan showed no sign of waking up.

“Solas doesn’t think she’s will die.” Cullen comes to stand by her side, hands resting on the hilt of her sword. “All will be well. But you owe me a new dummy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that one.” As if on cue, her sword hits the ground with a thump, and sand starts to pool at the dummy’s feet. She meets Cullen’s hazel eyes and is annoyed to see him suppressing a laugh. “Oh, shut up.”

They stand in companionable silence for a few moments. In the distance, the sun rises and paints the mountains a golden orange that’s almost strong enough to distract from the dull, pulsing green of the Breach. It is so much smaller now, she realizes. Thanks to her, that little elf with her knives and her smiles.

“She didn’t have to help us.” Cassandra doesn’t know what to think. The memory of Divine Justinia’s voice, calling for help, replays itself whenever she closes her eyes. Lavellan’s confused expression, her words – what’s going on here?

“We didn’t give her much of a choice.” Cullen is generous. It is Cassandra to blame – she is the one who gave Lavellan no choice. And now she faced death.

“Don’t mince words with me. This is my doing.”

Cullen shifts, turns to meet her gaze directly, and the rising sun casts half his face in shadow.

“We all suspected her Cassandra. She was an easy solution to all of our questions.”

“You didn’t read her journals.” Cassandra is shaking her head. “She couldn’t have done this. I should’ve have known.”

“Leliana’s report told me enough.” Cullen’s voice remains even, and he doesn’t rise to the emotion that so easily swallows Cassandra up. “And it also said that we can’t trust what she wrote in her journals.”

For a fleeting moment, she is annoyed. Damn Cullen and his damnable control. How is he so reasonable all the time?

“She didn’t ask questions. Not really. Just believed me and followed when I told her that she was our only hope of closing the Breach.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t up there with you.” She knows what he is doing, in his irritatingly thoughtful way. Change the subject, distracting her from her self-doubt. The same strategy Josephine employed last night, as she besieged Cassandra with questions about Nevarran royalty and connections they might leverage. 

“You were keeping Haven safe. Our troops needed you.” 

“You are kinder to me than you are to yourself, Cassandra.” He pauses then, following her gaze to contemplate the frozen lake and the distant, subdued swirl of light in the sky. “Do you trust her now?” 

Cassandra pauses, thinks over her life. Kirkwall’s seamy streets and the thrall of Varric’s words about Hawke. Leliana’s assessment of city and their conversations about an Exalted March. Divine Justinia, praying for peace and inspiring dedication in the way that only she could. All of those moments, part of her history, and yet through it all, uncertainty plagued Cassandra. Did Kirkwall deserve to be purged? Did it need it, was Hawke to blame, and where was the Champion in the aftermath of the rioting? The mages needed to be watched, after all. Or did they? Even the Divine seemed unsure on that front. Each of those memories had its own special slice of doubt, Cassandra realized.

And yet when Lavellan stood up and followed Cassandra into what very well could have been their deaths, the elf had not hesitated. Had straightened her shoulders and demanded some knives. And what a swing she had. Cassandra expected little from the elf, but had learned very quickly that Lavellan’s willowy limbs were laced with well-earned muscle, and that those delicate hands, so long the object of Solas’ study, were practiced with a blade. 

Then, while she watched Solas raise Lavellan’s hand to the rift, Cassandra felt the stirrings of an unfamiliar sensation. Of something she hadn’t known for a while. It concretized into a defined feeling, when they felled the demon at the temple and Lavellan temporarily sealed the Breach. It was faith, Cassandra knew then and knows now. Not faith like she has in the Maker and Andraste, but a sort of certainty that had been lacking over this past year. It was right to help Lavellan get to the Breach, to enable her to use her mark, whatever it was, to stem the flow of demons and chaos.

But did she trust her? Who was she really? Her words in the pages of her notebooks showed suffering, but they had all known suffering. Anthony for her. Cullen, haunted by his lyrium, made Cassandra his failsafe. Leliana and the trail of dead she left in her wake. Were empathy and conviction enough to constitute trust?

She opens her mouth to answer Cullen, and they are interrupted by a messenger.

“Seeker Cassandra!” The guardswoman runs over. “The serving girl says the Herald is awake.”

Relief, and she feels it in every bone of her body. Relief, and then confusion again at the title the guardswoman uses. She had almost forgotten that detail, lost in her thoughts as she was.

“They call me _what_?” Lavellan’s voice rings out in the Chantry. Her expression would have made Cassandra laugh, had the topic been less serious. But it was true – it had begun as whisperings when the guards first found her, unconscious but alive in the shadow of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But she was still mystery then, at worst a traitor, at best, an undeserving survivor. Now she was a hero, and the townsfolk spoke the words with reverence. 

“The Herald of Andraste.” Leliana smirks as she crossing her arms over her chest. “They say that Andraste herself pulled from you from the fade. Saved you from the explosion.”

Lavellan splutters, tries to speak and fails.

“Quite a title. How does it suit you?” She is surprised to hear a twinge of her own amusement in Cullen’s words. He is sizing her up, she knows. Him and Josephine both - this is the first time they’ve really seen her conscious, and after all the talk, their curiosity is almost tangible. 

She is glad, suddenly, that she is across the table from the advisors. The Herald, so confident on the battlefield, so cheeky in their conversations, is floundering here, and Cassandra wants her to feel supported, even if that means standing staunchly but silently by her side. This has, admittedly, been a busy couple of days for Lavellan. And if her diaries are taken to be true, she has had little recent experience amongst humans.

“It’s ridiculous.” She settles her hands on her hips and stares, demanding, at the advisors. “Why would Andraste want someone like me?”

Cassandra knows that Cullen doesn’t understand – never has, because being raised a Templar makes you funny that way. The difference between mages and non-mages was canyons wide. The difference between human and elf was nonexistent by contrast. But Josephine hides a flinch at the implication that, even in Haven, people have been less than kind about Lavellan’s heritage. Cassandra knows the diplomat is making mental notes to quell the racist slurs and hushed rumours that pervade conversations out in the training yard and mess hall. 

“We do not need to puzzle over Andraste’s will.” Leliana, as usual, is just as quick with her words and she is on her feet. “It serves us to have this rumour spread.”

“If you insist.” Lavellan shrugs, and Cassandra cannot understand it. To be called the Herald of Andraste? To be signalled out for greatness, touched by divine will? How is the weight of such praise so readily dismissed? Why would Andraste choose a servant like Lavellan? That she was an elf was less important – the more important point stemmed from her journals. Her written words suggested she didn’t know what to believe, that “agnostic” was a loose label that barely fit. 

“We must turn our attention to more pressing matters now. We owe you our thanks for sealing the Breach, albeit temporarily.” Josephine sweeps in and they begin to discuss their options. Cassandra watches Lavellan carefully, attuned to the slight pull of her eyebrows when Cullen mentions he used to be a Templar. Suspicious of her immediate agreement to travel to the Hinterlands and find Mother Giselle.

“I will accompany her.” She says, both to stop the advisors’ bickering and to sate her own suspicions. She looks at Lavellan, is oddly gratified when the elf flashes her a relieved smile.  
Did Andraste choose you? Saved from a blast that destroyed hundreds. How could there be another answer?

But Cassandra hated being wrong, and she had already been wrong about Lavellan. She was no traitor. The elf rubbed absently at the seam along her left hand, and Cassandra wondered if it was just a quest for answers that drove her. Was that the explanation, the reason she was so willing to help their cause? Was she in search of her own answers, or something more?

Their cause. The thoughts give her pause and she knows it is time. She walks away from the conversation and pulls a tome off the shelf. This is what Justinia wanted, and what they are now able to achieve. 

“The Breach might be sealed,” she finds herself saying. The room has fallen silent at her actions. “But the mage-Templar war continues to ravage the country side. We have received reports of rifts all over Thedas. Orlais is mired in civil war and the Chantry flounders without a leader.” She slams the book onto the war table, and the noise is louder than she intended.

“The Inquisition of old.” Leliana breathes the words, but it is not to her that Cassandra appeals. 

Cassandra lifts her gaze to look the elf straight in the eyes. The colour of Nevarran royalty, she thinks, and the emerald of the Herald’s eyes transports her momentarily back to the robes and silks of her youth.

“Will you join us?” she asks.

Lavellan has approached the table, stands at Cassandra’s side. She looks up into the taller woman’s face, scans it like she’s looking for something specific. Her own expression is a mask, and Cassandra feels the tension of the advisors as they wait on her response. They may not have fought alongside her as Cassandra had, but everyone in the room knows that the Inquisition needs Lavellan. Without a way to seal the rifts, how can they hope to restore order?

“You do not do this for yourselves?” She scans the room then, assesses the advisors before her gaze returns to Cassandra. “From what little I have seen of the world, it is a broken place. You would act to remedy this?”

Cassandra nods. “Thedas needs order and it needs peace.”

She smiles then, and there is certainty in her eyes. Cassandra thinks that Lavellan has let her see this – that she can choose what her face communicates. Her smile is radiant, and Cassandra is momentarily surprised to feel herself smiling back. 

The elf puts her hand forward, and clasps Cassandra’s wrist.

“Then I am with you until our work is done.”

“May you walk in the Maker’s light, Herald of Andraste.” As Cassandra lets the reverential words drop from her lips, she knows the answer to Cullen’s question.

*  
_Hawke,_

_First off, let me tell you – this shit is weird._

_And before you freak out and Fenris threatens my bloody maiming and evisceration, don’t worry. I'm sending this through a secure channel._

_So, about the weird shit. Well, what would you say if I told you our saviour has come? That's right. The battered little elf who survived the big boom at the Conclave is apparently the chosen of Andraste herself. I’d call it all bullshit and the running tongues of simple minds – you know all about that – except for one thing. She can close the rifts._

_You heard me (or read me?). Those green swirling mist shits popping up all over the place? Spewing demons like guts coming out of a stomach wound? Knowing you, you’ve probably tried to fight one already. I can imagine Fenris losing his balls when he realized the demons just don’t stop. Well, Ellana Lavellan, this so called Herald of Andraste, has a big green fissure on her hand, and it goes zap! And the rifts close._

_I can’t explain how it feels to be around her when she uses the mark. There’s a jolt and light springs form her hand, connecting with the rift, fizzing until it sunders shut. It’s like the Fade is tugging on your soul and doesn’t want to let go. The feeling was even stronger when she connected with the gigantic Breach – the one up in the sky that you can see from every corner of Thedas. She managed to seal it, but not before we were put to work taking down hulking demon or two._

_I have to stay here, Hawke. There was red lyrium all over the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And I mean all over. Whatever went down there was bad, and I have a sneaking suspicion that all that shit in the Deep Roads with Bertrand is coming back in a big way. I wanted Kirkwall to be the last of it. That damned city still hasn’t recovered. I wish I could be back there._

_But the Herald needs support with this shit, and I can’t help but feel like I’m a part of the reason that this is all happening. I’d tell you what the she’s like, but I don’t really know yet. What quality time we’ve spent together, we spent covered in demon innards and basically trying to stay alive. She’s fast on her feet and she didn’t complain when the Seeker basically voluntold her to go head to head with a swirling vortex of who-knows-what. Reminds me of you. But don’t get jealous – you know I’ve only got room in my heart for one generally fucked up crazy lady.  
_

_Anyway, for now, I’m going to tough it out with these folks. You stay underground – even if they’ve got a new poster child, I bet the Inquisition would have a thing or two to say to you if they knew where you were._

_I’ll write the next time something cataclysmic happens. Knowing my luck, that’ll either be tomorrow or the day after._

_Hugs and all that other stuff you hate,  
Varric_


	4. Past and Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new perspectives in this chapter.

_Take it from me: if you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and running its fingers up your spine , the best thing to do - the only thing - is run._

*

 _Herald of Andraste._ Ellana sits on the dock, feet swinging, eyes on the frozen lake. She almost laughs. What would Marethan say? She opens her left palm to the sky and contemplates the green fissure. Too much green in her life. Her eyes, the woods, the rifts. Behind her, Haven celebrates her awakening, its survival. She runs a hand through her hair, pulling tangles apart, and dark locks fall in around her face.

Her possessions had been returned to her, but when she tries to write in her journal, she finds words failing her. She had let only one person read her words, and that was before the room with the blue drapes. Only one person, and he had betrayed her, probably. As she flips through the pages, scans her slanted, curving script, she wonders how much they read. Who did the reading? Leliana certainly, but Cassandra? Josephine? Cullen? Varric or Solas seemed less likely; their own roles were as uncertain as her own, peripheral to this cause that she had suddenly embraced. This Inquisition, well-intended, wherever it would end up.

She looks back at the notebook. The privacy of something only she knew. That’s what was gone as she flipped through the pages. She closed the book again and slung it into her pack. 

_Could Andraste have saved me_? Ellana’s rationale side has read everything there was to know about Andraste. About her bravery and sacrifice as she rose up against Tevinter slavery. About Shartan, her elven Champion, a warrior who had died for Andraste’s freedom. _Is this the blessing of the divine? Or does it make me a monster?_

She was unable to put description to the sensation of lightning and fire when she connected with a rift. Or to the sundering that is both pain and sweet release when she seals it for good. She looks at the Breach, stiller now, and wonders if she could have done more to close it for good.

“Not enjoying the party?” The husky voice is Varric’s and she smiles at the thought of company, suddenly grateful she is not alone with her thoughts. “I believe it’s in your honour. Got a cake with your face in icing.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“So I’ve been told,” he chuckles and settles down next to her, shifting his weight back onto his hands. “So, done moping yet?”

“You know, moping is best achieved in solitude.”

“You don’t want me to leave,” he insisted knowingly, and she wonders if it’s just his confidence, or if he really is that good at reading her. “Besides, I have a matter of great import to discuss with you.”

“Oh,” she turns then, gives him a sideways look and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Which do you like better – Whirlwind or Star-destroyer?”

“Whirlwind. Star-destroyer’s got too many syllables. What are we talking about?”

“Your nickname, of course. Now that we’re sticking around, we need to establish some basics here.” He swings his legs out like a child on a chair that’s too tall, and Ellana realizes he’s the first dwarf she’s met. He’s taller than she expects, she can’t help but think. 

“Those are the most monstrously awful nicknames I’ve ever heard.” Her voice is deadpan, and she knows he’s trying to make her laugh. “Besides, a person can’t choose their own nickname. A nickname chooses them.” Athenril had told her just that.

“I didn’t say they were good ones.” Varric chucks an errant stone onto the lake, and they watch it skitter across the ice. “And who made you the nickname expert. You ever had one before?”

Ellana moves to answer and then freezes. Curses herself for her lack of control, for beginning to act without thinking. What happened to all of her father’s training? She feels like she can’t keep any emotions off her face anymore.

But then she remembers Marethan, and the woman’s repeated assertions that talking somehow helped with the confusion. Ellana’s not sure she buys it, and she knows that Marethan didn’t mean the little things. But she decides to go for it anyway.

“Someone called Starlight once.” 

“Pfft,” Varric’s dismissal is immediate and loud, air blown through pressed lips. “Starlight? What a load of nug dung. You’ve got dark hair and emerald eyes and the best they got is ‘starlight’.” He pauses, inspired. “I got it.”

Apprehension spreads over her face, and she’s suddenly dreading what he’s going to say.

“Gemstone.”

“What?” Her voice is flat, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Yours eyes. My people mine for that colour, Gemma my dear. We sell that colour to the Orlesians so they can make earrings to match their dresses. Ferelden’s put it on a ring and ask for marriage.”

“Why are you still talking?” 

“See, it’s versatile. Gem, gemma, gemstone, my pal.” He stands and she still looks confused. He laughs. “Come on. Those townsfolk could use a look at your emerald eyes themselves. They like to remember that you’re real. Good for morale and all that.”

She goes to stand on her own and then sees his hand. Stout, thick fingers under leather gloves – offered graciously to help her to her feet. Nothing like a hand she’s touched before. She hesitates a moment, and then takes it, happy to get up and fall in step by his side. 

“It chose you, just like you said.”

“No, Varric, you chose it because you think you’re more charming then you actually are.”

He laughs and she can’t help but join in. She has no answers, but already she feels a little lighter. After a moment of silence, she speaks again.

“Varric,” her voice is contemplative this time, softer. Her eyes scan the palisade that surrounds Haven, and she spots Cullen, leaning on the battlements, looking their way. He’s just the eyes I did see, she realizes. Leliana’s probably got scouts who shadow me wherever I go. “You said ‘we’. Now that we’re staying.”

“What about it?” he asks, stuffing hands in his pockets.

“You don’t have to. You’re not like me.”

“You mean I don’t got some spooky green shit gobbling up my hand every now and then?” He laughs. “I suppose you’re right. But I have a history here.”

He tells her then of the red lyrium at the temple. She learns that he is from Kirkwall too, but it’s too soon to say anything on that front, she feels. And then he tells her that more than anything, this shit is weird.

“A hole in the sky that drops demons on us all? Mini-sized tears just like it all across Thedas? I might be a selfish guy, but even I can’t stand by and let that happen.”

“You’re a good person, Varric.” They pass through the gates and voices raised in revelry meet their ears. More than one pair of curious eyes watch her, interested but uncertain.

“I’m a businessman,” he clarifies, all bluster. “And I know that demons on every major roadway from here to Val Royeaux is bad for business.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” The sincerity in her voice seems to give him pause, and it takes him a moment to hide the surprised arch of his bushy orange eyebrows. She doesn’t wait for the pithy statement he’s trying to conjure.  
“I’ll see you later, Varric.”

She leaves the dwarf by the fire and the music and hops up the steps to the Chantry entrance. Seeing Chancellor Roderick, she thinks about swerving off in the opposite direction. But resolve pools in her stomach then, and she decides that if she’s going to stick around, she’ll have to face him at some point.

Ellana keeps her face neutral as the man scowls at her approach. She’d always found Chantry robes oddly dress-like, wondered how they kept the headpiece upright. As she pulls her warm layers tighter against the cold, she wonders how he is not freezing. She’d lived out of doors through winters to the north, but something about Haven’s positioning in the shadow of the Frostbacks made it chilly, even to her. In his nothing but robes, she was surprised Roderick was still moving. He must have furs on under there…

“So it’s the Herald now, is it?” He’s practically sneering, and Ellana’s very grateful the old man can’t tell what she’s thinking. She shrugs.

“I didn’t ask for any of this, Chancellor.” She knows that humans value their titles. Hopes that dropping his will win her some points.

“The people allege that Andraste herself saved you, and you have the gall to brush it aside?” His distrust is evident in the way he settles his feet, widening his stance as if she might suddenly strike out at him. Around them, a jaunty jig plays, its levity stark in contrast to the weight of Roderick’s expression.

“Not gall, I assure you.” She scans him with calm eyes, refusing to rise to his bait. “Just uncertainty. I don’t know why I survived the temple. So many people died, and it’s hard to imagine that somehow, amongst all of those Chantry members, I was the one worth saving.”

Roderick’s expression softens slightly at her response, and for the first time, he looks unsure of what to say. Ellana, sensing the shift, continues.

“My people believe our gods are gone. That they are sealed away, and that through respect and tradition, we can once more earn their favour. But rarely do we assert that our gods are making themselves known, plucking out chosen ones and heralds from everyday folk.” Ellana spreads her hands as she runs out of words. 

“Hm,” The Chancellor turns from her then, eyes introspective as he watches Flissa twirl a grudging Adan around the fire. “Your gods are imprisoned, while ours has turned away, disappointed in our actions.” 

Ellana knows the Maker’s story also. She speaks of Dalish gods as if they were her own because she hopes that Roderick can appreciate faith, whatever form it takes. There are, she realises, parallels in human and elven worship worthy of further study. She cannot tell him what she truly believes - that she suspects she has no faith, that up in the sky, in the Fade, in the Golden City, there may be no one at all watching their lives unfold. 

“Living in Kirkwall,” she says, her voice soft enough that Roderick has to move a little closer, almost despite himself. “I came to realize that in many ways, my people and yours are perhaps not so different.” She was by no means an exemplary or prototypical Dalish, but the humans didn’t know that. And how could she explain it, really? So instead, she repeats herself. 

“I don’t know why I survived. I do not feel worthy of any divine intervention.”

He goes to speak and then stops. He would have told her she is worthy of the Maker’s love. That is what the Chantry is obligated to tell lost souls, those in search of purpose, as she has so clearly presented herself to be. But then he remembered that he cannot offer that consolation: she is an elf, maybe a traitor, an unknown but central part of tragic circumstances. Ellana does not miss the consolation. 

“I do know this though.” She lifts her left palm, and wills the green light to surge. When it does, Roderick takes a tentative step back, and those around them glance their way. “When I awoke with this power, I found myself able to do good. To really make a difference.” She looks at him and smiles. He seems surprised, disarmed for the moment, his cynicism falling by the wayside. 

“This mark on my hand might be a gift for Andraste. Or it could be the consequence of some terrible action. All I do know is that it enables me to make Thedas a little safer.” She turns to face him now, full on. She is not tall, but neither is Roderick – their eyes are almost level. 

“So I choose to walk this path, regardless of what others may call me.” She lets her hands fall by her sides. Her points are hitting home; she can see it in the way the lines of his frown have faded. “And I hope that by the few small actions I contribute to our cause, I do something worth doing. Something right, something that could make both your god and mine proud of their creations.”

At the same moment, she and Roderick that the music has stilled and that others are listening to her words. Ellana is nervous under so many eyes, but also knows that she has done well. That Josephine would be impressed. 

“So, Chancellor Roderick.” She brings a smile back to her face and meets his gaze. “Can we part as allies, if not as friends?”

She raises her hand, a human tradition. Roderick flushes suddenly as he realizes that she has him trapped. Refuse, and he seems petty and uninterested in the greater good. But accept, as a Chancellor in his Chantry robe, and he throws the support of his organization behind what has been labelled a heretical rebellion. As the silence grows uncomfortably long, and Ellana stands, fixed, with a gentle smile on her face, Roderick knows he has only one option.

He shakes her hand, and she is surprised to feel the callouses of hard work and toil on his palm. Ellana is elated at the handshake, and a little surprised. She had always been better on her feet and with a knife than with spoken words. She knows that his concession is a victory.

“Goodnight, Chancellor Roderick. Your support is dear to us.” She moves to the plural now, aligning herself with the single eye on the banner that flaps behind them in the wind.

“Goodnight. Herald.” The words are stiff and he might not believe, but he finds himself saying them anyway. As she walks away, he wonders what in the name of Andraste just happened.

*  
“ _She is perfect._ ” 

Leliana snorts. Josie’s effusiveness is always too much, especially early in the morning. 

“The way she maneuvered Roderick into an open declaration of Chantry support. It was nearly an endorsement!” The Antivan’s hands curl and flow in that annoyingly over-expressive way that all Antivans gush. Leliana wishes she could place a requisition order for some coffee. Such things were never luxuries when working for the Divine, but to wake up to a hot pot of coffee in Haven – apparently, that was simply too much to ask. 

“We know that her training as a petty criminal in Kirkwall has made her good with her words,” Cullen, always able to find fault, seemed determined to be unimpressed with the Herald’s performance at last night’s celebration. “What I’m more concerned with is her fighting prowess. I don’t see how two little knives are going to stave off entire hoards of demons. Our reports indicate –”

“Oh, be quiet all of you.” Leliana flaps a hand at them. Cullen and Josephine could bicker over what colour the Chantry door needed to be – Cullen’s pure pragmatism was never satisfied by the purposeful pomp and circumstance Josie demanded. 

“I wasn’t saying anything.” Cassandra had to speak up, of course, standing at the back of the room, arms crossed as they all waited for the Herald. “I have absolute confidence in the Herald’s abilities, both to parlay with Mother Giselle, and to make her way to Dennet’s farms and fight the demons.” Cassandra lifted herself up from the wall and joined their circle. “Leliana and I have seen her fight, Cullen. We can attest that you have nothing to worry about.”

Leliana agreed. The Herald was a sight to behold, speed and shadows that Leliana hadn’t seen since her training as a bard. The longer she considered the Herald, the more difficult it became to reconcile herself to the facts – to the living, breathing elf who smiled, listened and seemed so different from the voice behind the pen in her notebooks.

Pages after pages, Leliana had read. She had wanted to skim, to identify the important and catalogue the rest with little unnecessary examination. But the elf wrote like someone who read widely, as Leliana knew Ellana did. She wrote like a poet when she wanted to, comparative descriptions and truncated sentences when feeling was more important to her the structure. And at times, she wrote like a historian, capturing facts and skirting around the people involved. Leliana had found herself compelled, unable to gloss over because the voice between the pages was both naïve and wise, fragile and strong.

Ellana was the victim of rape, and had likely never come to terms with that fact. She had seen her father savagely murdered by a demon. She had made close bonds and had them severed. She had lived, almost alone, in the woods for at least a year and had been tacitly rejected her own people.

The chronology, or rather lack of clear chronology, of the Herald’s accounts infuriated Leliana to no end. Who keeps such meticulous notes on their life, but neglects to mention dates? As she’d summarized the findings for the others, she parsed the details down to the bare essentials. A Dalish elf with a criminal history. Resident of Kirkwall. Recently returned to her Clan. Able fighter, skilled negotiator, experienced in lying, setting traps, picking locks, fighting, horticulture. 

For Josie and Cullen, that was enough. But in the aftermath of the explosion, they were all shaken. Cassandra, especially ungrounded by the loss of Justinia, flailed desperately for something to do, frustrated that their only option was waiting for Ellana to awaken. Unable to sit idle, the Seeker demanded to read the journals herself. Had insisted that they might be faked because, like Leliana, she had been unexpectedly moved by the tone of Ellana’s writing, the faith in her words that had crumbled at her life’s betrayals, and the emotions that both Seeker and spymaster could empathize with. 

Privately, Leliana didn’t agree about the potential for forgery: the way the cursive changed with the author’s mood, the crumpled edges of some pages, the splattering of dried raindrops or tears, the oak leaf pressed between the pages – these were signs pointing to a veracity that no amount of conviction could contradict. If Ellana’s journals were part of a long game, a ploy to buy their trust, they were the most elaborate con Leliana had ever witnessed. But it was a possibility she couldn’t rule out conclusively, and so she’d added a line to her terse report: journals may be forged to support her story. 

On paper, the Herald is uncertain. Skirts away from truths. Often does what she does out of feeling before thought. But in life, she moves with a surety and grace that initially surprised Leliana. Watching her corner Roderick last night, she had wondered what formal training could make of Ellana. But then she’d smiled to herself and retreated into the Chantry. Ellana was effective in her conversation with Roderick because she was sincere throughout. Orlesian bards would strip her of that – teach her the pretense of truth but pay no mind to the importance its spirit. 

“Where is the Herald?” Leliana asks, coming out of her thoughts to interrupt whatever argument Josie and Cullen are having. “We are approaching quarters.”

“She’s down by the lake. She spends most mornings there between sunrise and quarters, and then she typically seeks out Solas or Varric.” Cullen’s immediate reply has all three women looking at him. Realizing how his words might be construed, Cullen flushes, rubs a hand at his neck. “I have guards watching her.” His tone is explanatory. “In case.”

“Of course,” Leliana replies, amused at his embarrassment. Cullen is a study in opposites, she thinks, confident and commanding on his own terms, but ready to flush at the slightest teasing. Comfortable in what he does best, she supposes. Like all of them. Leliana, though, misses the opportunities for the kinds of social play Ellana had demonstrated last night. While knives in the dark and blackmailed secrets present their own challenges, she sometimes looks around at Haven’s wooden walls and barren exterior, and wishes herself back in the gilded halls of Halamshiral. 

“Can you fetch the Herald, please?” she asks the guardsman outside the door. “She’s…” and she can’t resist, flashes a glance back over her shoulder to Cullen.

“She’s where, exactly, Commander?”

“Er, down by the lake. On the pier.” He turns around and fiddles with papers on the table.

“Right away, ma’am.” 

When the Herald arrives, she provides little in the way of apology. 

“What, you think the Dalish prance around in the woods with a lit candle to keep track of time? I don’t know what “quarters” means.” Her tones strike the balance between sarcastic and contrite, and they move on with the briefing. 

Watching her quiet deference to Josie’s advice and Cullen’s instructions, Leliana is struck again at the parallels with Tabris. Kallian Tabris, Hero of Ferelden and dear friend, looked nothing like Ellana superficially. Where Ellana’s hair was dark – brown in the light and nearly black in the shadows of the Chantry where they now met – and long, Tabris’ was light, razed short by an angry self-cutting after her botched wedding and kept that way out of convenience. “If I’m going to be traipsing around the country, hip deep in darkspawn blood, do I really want long, pretty hair in my eyes,” the Hero had asked Leliana once.

Tabris, born and raised in an alienage, bore no vallaslin. Neither did Ellana, Dalish though her origins were. And both had the slight build that belied unexpected strength. But it wasn’t the point of their ears or the slant of their large eyes that made the connections for Leliana, but rather the aura of control that surrounded each woman. Ellana knew when she could push, joke and charm, and when she had to listen. Tabris had been bad at the listening, but had learned that it was necessary. Both could have been bards, Leliana thought again; both had the ability to make their face reveal what they wanted you to see. That was the trickiest part, and the one that worried Leliana most. Ellana could have been a spy, an agent and instigator of the explosion. Or she could simply be exactly what she claimed – an elf with no memories of the event, and a past that matched, verbatim, with what the words in her journal suggested.

Leliana expression darkens as she thinks back to Ellana’s interrogation. Gone were the chains that bound the elf’s wrists before she’d sealed the Breach. The terms were different now, and Ellana’s compliance had earned her Haven’s goodwill. Cassandra was too quick, however, to offer alliances. Leliana hadn’t had a chance to speak with the Herald after she awoke; so much had been swept up in the attempt to close the tear in the sky. But she made time for the discussion, not long after the Breach was sealed: they sat on opposite sides of a table in Josie’s office, steaming tea in their hands.

“You do not like me, spymaster.” And there it was again – the confidence and surety that reminded her of Tabris and contrasted with the person Leliana had expected.

“I do not know you well enough to like you.” Leliana said, ready to be candid.

Ellana sat back, propped an elbow up on the back of her chair while the fingers of her other hand drummed against the side of her teacup. Her face is practiced nonchalance, and 

Leliana wonders what she could say to make the elf’s control slip. To leave her vulnerable, susceptible to the kinds of questions that really needed to be answered.

She almost doesn’t go there. She doesn’t want to, but it’s her job, and they need to be sure that Ellana isn’t an enemy.

“What was the name of the man in the room with the blue drapes?”

The reaction is instant – dilated pupils and complete stillness. Ellana’s fingers pause, mid-tap and her face, usually olive-toned and warm, becomes pale. She holds Leliana’s gaze but the spymaster isn’t sure Ellana is seeing her. Or seeing anything in the room.

Leliana lets the question hang in the air between them. Tension mounts, and she speaks again.

“What happened at the conclave?”

Ellana pulls herself back to the present then, and laughs. It is a sharp sound. Leliana knows she has done damage to whatever relationship they might have had.

“Are you proud of yourself?” The elf stands, and Leliana follows suit. “Bald-faced and heartless tactics to make me tell you the truth –is that the best the Inquisition’s spymaster can offer?” Her voice is louder now, and Leliana has unbalanced her, though perhaps not in the way that she hoped.

“You already know the truth.” Ellana’s expression is somewhere between agony and rage; gone are her attempts to conceal her feelings. Leliana says nothing, keeps perfectly still. 

“You read it all, and you shared it with the world.”

“I need to know if we can trust you.” Leliana won’t apologize – not for doing her job. “If he is real, he has a name. A name can be fact-checked, investigated. If your past cannot be verified, we cannot be sure it happened at all.” She feels herself back-pedalling, has a flash of hot frustration at her own fumbling. She doesn’t need to explain herself to Ellana. 

She is doing her job and emotions should not cloud her purpose. She focuses, holds the Herald’s eyes.

“What happened at the conclave, Lavellan?”

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Her shout echoes and Leliana knows it can be heard in the hallway. Josephine will scold me later. Fighting at the top is never good for morale.

“Are you certain?” Leliana is around the table and close now, nose inches from the elf’s, but Ellana won’t back down. “Are you responsible?”

“No!” The elf brings her hands up to shove Leliana back, and then checks herself. Turns away, breathes deep, takes a few steps.

The door opens and Cullen’s face appears, caution in his stance and a hand at his sword hilt.

“Is everything… well?” He looks from Leliana to the Herald, and doesn’t like what he sees. Leliana meets his disapproving gaze and is irritated at his idealism. We cannot afford blind faith. Cullen and Josephine ask none of the hard questions. It is always her job, just as it had been under the Divine. Maybe she was made for this – always cutting deep, leaving emptiness and sorrow in the wake of her questions and actions. This must’ve been what the Maker intended for her. Why else would it be so easy for her?

Ellana’s shoulders are slumped, and she when she speaks it is to Leliana, not Cullen.

“You have rifled my possessions and taken my past from me, Leliana.” She does not look at the spymaster. “And with the Inquisition and this mark, you have taken my future as well.” 

She turns, and suddenly she is small, unlike Tabris or Cassandra, or anyone important. She is small and hurt and Leliana is awash with regret. 

“I am not a spy, and I did not destroy the Conclave.” Ellana’s emerald eyes hold Leliana’s. 

“If I am to have nothing else in all this, then let me have my pain.” 

Leliana hates this. How people punish her for being good at what she does. How getting the answers they need always comes with hurt feelings. She says nothing, looks away from those sad eyes. 

The Herald nods, as if to herself, and brushes by Cullen and out the door.

“Leliana, what did you –”

“Go, Cullen.” His question is cut short by her tone, and he knows her well enough now not to argue. He leaves and pulls the door closed.

She sits down hard at Josie’s desk, in the chair where Ellana had sat. She looks at the tea the elf had barely touched, and decides that she has enough. No more questions. Those were honest words.

And now, in the war room before Ellana’s first mission, the elf doesn’t look Leliana’s way once.

She does not see that my tactics are necessary. Hands behind her back, Leliana adds little to the other advisors’ words. Like the others, she takes the stance that we must save the world without trampling on any hearts. Leliana is disappointed, and the feeling makes her realise that she’s tired of being the only hardline voice at the table. She had hoped for a pragmatic companion in the Herald. Instead, she found only another bleeding soul.

“Is there anything we can do for the refugees?” Ellana’s question proved Leliana’s point – Giselle’s information was the more pressing issue, and yet the Herald had skirted past that to trite details.

“There numbers are many, and our resources are few. But you are right to consider their interests – acts of goodwill may win their support.” Josie is insisting, and the Herald nods, expression appropriately serious. “The benevolence of the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’ can earn our cause much respect.”

As the meeting concludes, Leliana decides she must move past her altercation with the Herald. The sooner their relationship a professional one, the sooner the Herald may stop avoiding her gaze and her person.

“A moment, Lavellen,” she asks as the others file out of the room. She uses the Herald’s surname in an effort to put her at ease: Ellana had not been pleased with the Herald title. 

“Any other questions for me?” Ellana leans against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow. Tries to project confidence, and Leliana isn’t sure if she believes her. “Our last sharing session left me quite charmed.”

So she wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t happen. That suited Leliana fine. Her smugness failed to impress to the spymaster because Leliana knew that, with only a few words, she could reduce the elf to panic or rage.

“There is another matter you might consider in the Hinterlands.” Ignoring the jibe seemed the best option. “There has been suspicions about the Grey Wardens.”

At this, the Herald’s interest peaked. She straightened up from the door frame, curiosity in her intelligent face. Leliana elaborated, and answered the Herald’s questions.

“Very well. We will keep an eye out for signs of Grey Warden activity.” 

“Thank you, Herald.” A little politeness couldn’t hurt, Leliana rationalized. 

“Yes, well,” Ellana looked away, eyes refusing to settle until they returned to Leliana. “Thank you, too. For looking into this. It could be important.”  
Was that an apology? Leliana wondered as the Herald nodded, turned curtly, and left the room. She sighed. It didn’t matter, and it wasn’t worth her concern.

Leliana watched the party head out the next morning. When the Herald was gone, ambling out the gates with Solas, Cassandra and Varric trailing behind, Leliana knew that she had done what was necessary. It would continue to be her role to dredge up the past, expose secrets, and exploit weakness, because their cause is too important to be sacrificed to sensitive feelings and moral appropriateness. Justinia knew that and commanded terrible deeds from Leliana’s hands. Asked for death, and forgave when Leliana returned and reported her successes. 

Turning her eyes to the sky, Leliana hopes that the Maker will be just as forgiving. 

*  
Solas hears her before he spots her, and he wonders at how readily she can disappear into the canopy. Ellana is singing. Her words are attempting elven, he realizes as he listens to a verse, and he is momentarily irritated at the mangled pronunciation. But then he breathes in deep through his nose and looks about them; the woods are darkening as the sun sets, and he is soothed by the gentle melody beneath the words.

The song is a sad one, and her voice is lower than he expects, but beautiful.

When he first met Ellana, she wore shemlen armour and smelled of ash and smoke. Her face was so different then, inert and expressionless, suggesting nothing of the lively eyes that crinkled when she laughed at Varric’s stories, or the singsong sound of her speech when she teased Cassandra. He had watched her eyelids flicker then, in the dungeon below Haven, and wondered where in the Fade she was wandering. What demons she saw that brought a furrow to her smooth brow.

Then the mark would surge and bring his attention back to his work. He ran through ancient spells and reached into his own well-springs, trying to ease the worrying expansion of the fissure in her palm. But none of his efforts bore fruit, and he felt Cassandra’s frustration mount.

“You know nothing?” Her outrage had filled the cold chamber, and Solas kept his eyes on the unconscious elf as he answered.

“I cannot say anything for certain, no.” He ran his fingers along the fissure one more time, lamenting the metal chains that bound the elf’s small wrists together. She did not deserve to suffer for events she did not understand. He had to do right by her. Of all the souls in Thedas to walk out of the Conclave, why did it have to be one of the People? It would have been so much easier to walk away from this mess if it wasn’t for these – he ran his fingers along the graded point of her ear, fingers nestling in greasy hair.

“Apostate.” A harsh word dropped like ice into his thoughts, and he glances up at Cassandra, annoyed.

“Can you stop it from killing her?”

“No,” he says, admitting it to both her and himself, and he is crushed with the knowledge that he is to blame. That once again, one of the elvhenan will fall victim to magic he cannot control. He feels it press on his soul, and cannot sit any longer by her side. He is tired of trying to reach into her, connect with the elusive tendrils of the Fade that wrench her apart at the seams.

“Where are you going?”

He has stood and tries to shoulder by Cassandra, but the human woman puts a hand on his arm and has the audacity to think she can stop him.

_I could splinter you into a thousand pieces._

The thought is dark, and he wants none of it, tosses it away with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Cassandra is pigheaded, yes, but it is her ignorance that makes her that way. Like the Dalish. These people do not choose ignorance, Solas reminds himself.

“I will join Varric at the forward camp. He is seeing what can be done. I would aid in that, and try once more to seal a rift.”

“What of the traitor?’ Cassandra’s steely gaze makes it clear he is untrusted. But she also knows that her allies are few and that the demon hoard grows ever larger.

“I have done all I can for her.” As if it listens and seeks to mock him, the mark on her hand flares green and the elf groans in agony. He closes his eyes and cannot look at her crumpled form. “Her will is all that remains to stave off death. If she is strong, she will return to us.”

Cassandra is displeased, but says nothing. She has no knowledge of what he has done, the immense magics he has worked. He cannot expect her to understand. But as Solas swings his staff from his back and barrels out the gates of Haven, he is filled with a fizzling rage that needs an outlet. He is grateful when he encounters demons, setting them aflame and basking in their squeals.

 _My failings bring only the death of my people._ The thought haunts him as he joins Varric, and they reach the swirling green vortex in the valley. Echoes in his skull until, miraculously, he sees her. He and Varric fighting hard, praying for reprieve from the demons that barreled into their world, and, suddenly, she is there.

She is pale, but falls easily into step alongside Cassandra, dancing a graceful pattern in the snow as she slashes and stabs with practiced ease. And all the while, Solas feels the call of the mark in her hand, a tie to the Fade that screams louder now that she is awake. But it is not an angry call; no spirits beat raucously about her. Instead, it is a call raw with power, and for a moment, the sensation of the magic nearly dwarfs Solas. 

_She is not even a mage. How is this possible?_

He understands then, that she is his path to atonement. Through her, his wrongs might be corrected, and the orb returned. As the last demon falls to Varric’s bolt, he seizes her wrist and lifts it to the swirling green mists, distantly distracted by the sensation of her warm skin beneath his fingertips.

When the mark connects to the rift, the rush of energy surges through her hand, he feels like a peasant begging for alms, a tired dog who laps up the remnants of moisture in his water bowl. The world shifts beneath his feet and he needs to be near her, basking in the afterglow magical energy that courses like lyrium through his veins, runs off her in waves.

He lets a breath he didn’t know he was holding out through his mouth. Tries to come down from the high as the rift sunders into nothingness. She speaks and he is bewitched, not by her beauty, though she is beautiful, but by the power she can access at will through her palm.

He finds himself speaking, but reflecting back, as he stands beneath the trees in the Hinterlands, he has no notion of what he had said to her then. Knows only that his life had turned on that moment, and that he needed to serve Ellana so that he could feel that rush again. She would help him put it all to right, and when she smiled at him, he really did believe that his actions might not have been in vain. That maybe, the explosion at the Conclave was meant to lead to this. She had changed everything, given him hope again. Her survival meant he was spared another elvhenan death on his conscience, yes, but it meant more than that as well. When the smoke had settled and she had emerged, an elvhenan was put at the centre of an unfolding story. Her awakening and her power suggested strongly that their story was only just beginning.

“Do you think she regretted it, Solas?”

Ellana’s voice breaks him out of the memories, and he becomes aware of where he is. He sits, cross legged, beneath the tree she’s climbed. Her song had ended, and clearly had given way to contemplative thoughts.

“Adalene?” 

“Yes.” The words of her song were from a Dalish song, mourning the death of Elandrin the Emerald Knight and his human lover Adalene.

“It is hard to say.” Solas steeples his fingers, elbows on his knees as Ellana’s voice falls on him from above. “Did she know that she was dying, as she raced out of Red Crossing to be with her love? She thought that the future was in her grasp – a life of love and dedication, all for the simple price of Elandrin’s deference to the Maker.”

“Why does that matter?” Ellana’s voice is closer now, and he realizes she has dropped down a few branches. He can see her now, when he tilts his head up; her long hair is pulled back from her face, messily tied up, and she still wears her leather armour, spattered in blood from the day’s encounters. 

“To feel regret, wouldn’t she have had to know she was about to die?” Solas understands the mechanism of regret. Knows it both in himself, and in those he meets in the Fade. In the eyes of King Cailan at Ostagar, in the moment when he understood Loghain’s betrayal. On Lindirane’s face, as her legendary blade faltered and she fell, not to her Ser Brandis, but to an arrow. Brandis too, wore regret on his brow at the thought that such a capable warrior met such an undignified end.

“I don’t think so.” Ellana’s voice is thoughtful now, and he wonders at the sight they must make. The requisition officer mutters something to her peers over in the camp, and every so often, he feels the weight of their gazes and curiosity. Solas, neck craned so he can watch their so-called Herald. Ellana, now letting her feet swing, seemingly unmindful of the dirt she sends cascading down on him.

“Perhaps you should join me down here.” His tone is light, but even he can take only so much displaced bark and dust on his shoulders. “Your penchant for tree climbing is drawing attention.”

Ellana glances over, sees the gathered Fereldens and giggles. Lithe like a cat, she swings her hips forward and lands in a crouch on the ground beside him.

“What do you think?” She passes him her notebook, and he is surprised to see not words, but a picture. His own face, in charcoal, stares back at him, the lines alternating dark and light to create a sense of depth. The slope of his skull gives way to the collar of his mage coat, and his expression is mystifying, controlled. In the slant of his eyes and the quirk of his eyebrow, he feels that she can see right through him – it is his face staring back, not merely ‘Solas', but the person he truly is. She must know. He searches her eyes and her face is blank. Expectant. Is that nervousness he sees there?

She cannot know. She is just a child. Most people were, compared to him. She is just a young woman, anxious at the thought of sharing her artistic creation with another. 

“Am I really so serious?”

“Not serious. Wise.” She reaches over his arm, charcoal he hadn’t noticed earlier between her fingers. She writes with the hand that bears the mark, and Solas wonders that he can be so near to it and yet feel nothing. The mark does not always call to him; its pull is strongest when Ellana connects to the rifts, bridging their world with the Fade. Now, her hand looks normal, her skin oddly supple given the calloused fingers that arch around the charcoal. She rubs, gently pressing down on the notebook in his hands, creating shadows over half his face. Suddenly, the sketched version of himself takes on a different tone, might be sinister. His eyes narrow slightly, and he glances sidelong at her, but the elf’s face wears a thoughtful expression that seems free from accusation. She cannot know, he reminds himself.

“I didn’t mean dying.” She leans back against the trunk he rests on. The tree is an ancient one, and its shade darkens with the setting sun. “About Adalene. I meant falling in love with an elf. Persuading him to renounce his religion for her. Is that worthy of regret?”

Solas turns his head to watch the woman next to him and wonders what she is thinking. He has been pleasantly surprised by her open-mindedness and curiosity. Her questions about his travels in the Fade, the sights he’d seen, seemed genuine. She defied expectation at every turn, transgressing against the Dalish in the absence of vallaslin and shem in her lack of judgement for blood magic. I know only one mage who used blood magic, and he used it to a very dark end, she’d said honestly. But like any other weapon, I suspect its morality is tied more to its user than its nature.

“I think you have more in common with Elandrin than you realize, Herald.” He likes to use the shemlen title. It amuses him to watch the way discomfort squirms across her features at the implication. 

“How do you mean?” She turns the full force of her emerald gaze on Solas, and the mage again finds himself appreciating Varric’s moniker. In the approaching gloom, her eyes shone with a repressed light like sunshine on faceted crystal.

“Elandrin felt that the elvhenan gods played no part in his life. That they had turned away from him at the very moment when they were most desperately needed.” Solas’ eyes darken – Elandrin’s sister was another of the People abandoned to death. And yet were the Creators really accountable for every elvhenan soul? 

“Swearing himself to another false god was not as meaningful as you might imagine. As you indicated to Chancellor Roderick, elvhenan and shem gods are not so different in their absence. To Elandrin, the gesture was likely empty but necessary.”

Ellana’s eyes are searching his face, and he does not know what she is looking for. He tries a soft smile, hopes that it will banish her apparent worry.

“So it was nothing for him to walk away from his people?” Her eyes slide from his face, and Solas’ feels as though he has failed somehow. Wants, irrationally, to make it right and give her whatever it is that she seeks.

“I did not say that.” They both watch as Cassandra takes Varric to task, marshalling him in a search for suitable firewood. “He was an Emerald Knight, but by his era the Emerald Knights had been fighting for so long that they barely grasped their reasoning. What were they defending? Why did they have to spill so much Chantry blood? Conflict and the death of loved ones can make it hard to accept that the world is as it should be.”

Those words give her pause, and he can tell that she is beginning to see the parallels herself. Elandrin, feeling out of place among his own people and oddly comforted in the arms of a human girl. Ellana of the Lavellan Clan in name only, spearheading a shemlen cause because of inexplicable circumstance. Perhaps comforted by the sense of purpose the Inquisition gives her.

“If this is our history,” she finally says in a tone that suggests she has read this story before, knows the details already, “it’s no wonder the humans distrust us.” She looks down at her hands, and her hair slips from its messy bun, obscuring her eyes. 

“Some humans,” Solas rebukes gently. “But not all.” Ellana looks up and follows her gaze to where the Inquisition soldiers are pitching tents. The soldiers laugh together as a tent pole collapses, and the sound carries over to the elves. 

“True,” Ellana continues observing them as she answers. “I’m not even a very good elf, Solas. I definitely can’t compete with an Emerald Knight.”

And there it is – the disillusionment that haunts the People. Not good at being that which you were born as. The reason Solas must make change in the world, must right the wrongs of their subjugation. The elves of the city revoke their past and willingly submit to a life of squalor and servitude. The elves in the woods chase after remnants of things past, perpetuating misinformation through their inescapable ignorance. And elves like Ellana fit in neither category, feeling as though they can appeal to no gods. 

“What has happened to you, da’len?” He uses the word because he knows it is one she will understand. One that connects her to a past she believes she’s lost. “Why don’t you bear the marks that so many of your people do?”

“Why don’t you?” She deflects, quickly, and Solas realizes he is treading difficult waters.

“I am not Dalish. I do not have a Clan name.” 

She laughs then. “Well, according to Cassandra, I do. This human business of surnames is rather perplexing to me, for all I’ve lived amongst them.”

Ellana is a deliberate person. She does not speak unintentionally, Solas thinks. She is letting him see a little of her, if he would. But he must ask the questions she lets him ask.

“And where was that? When did you live amongst the humans?” He is aware of how close they sit, elbows almost touching. Her legs are stretched out in the grass in front of her, and her boots are scuffed with the evidence of the day’s journey. They have spoken to Mother Giselle, sent her back to Haven. Tomorrow, they make west to seek out the horse master. 

In the meantime, she tells him of her life in Kirkwall. Her voice grows animated as she describes her associates and her antics, and the practiced voice of a storyteller draws the attention of the others. Cassandra, interest clearly piqued though she tries to hide it, wanders over under the pretense of needing open space to clean her blade. Varric too, perhaps attracted by the prospect of someone else who can do what he does so well, meanders by, needing no excuse when he plops down in the grass across from Ellana. They listen, and laugh, and soon the requisition officer and soldiers sit with them under the tree, the fire crackling unattended several yards away.

Ellana’s has a magnetic allure that has nothing to do with her ability to close the rifts. Solas appreciates the masterful control she has over her body: her eyebrows tilt just so and her hands gesture; her voice is pitched to rise or fall or pause at all the right moments. If she were a mage, Solas would’ve suspected she was trained as the Keeper’s first, one of the storytellers of a Dalish clan. As she was, he could only speculate that somewhere in between the stories she was telling, she had cultivated the skills capturing and holding attention. 

“You know the Champion worked for Athenril too, Gemstone?” Varric’s words clearly catch her off guard. Her eyes widen slightly and she pauses before speaking.

“You didn’t say as much in _Tales of the Champion._ ” 

He shrugs. “It was before I knew her. She worked her way out of squalor doing favours for that elf.”

“If she got out of squalor, she made it farther than my father and I ever did,” Ellana laughs and the others join her.

“Where is your father now, Your Worship?” Scout Harding’s voice is light and inquisitive, but Solas doesn’t miss the way Cassandra, sitting next to the dwarf, tenses suddenly.

“I think we have bothered the Herald with personal inquiries enough for one night.” The Seeker interjects quickly, moves to stand, but stops when Ellana rests a hand on the human’s gauntleted arm. 

“No, it’s alright Cassandra.” Gone are the traces of mirth from the Herald’s face. Her voice is low, but Solas sees determination now, and readies himself for her words. “My father is dead, Scout Harding.”

“I’m sorry.” Harding is honest, unembarrassed for catalyzing the shift in mood. Solas remembers then, that most of these men and women had lived through the worst of the Fifth Blight. Everyone had death in their past.

“As I am. He was a good man.”

“What happened?” Varric this time, and the dwarf’s gaze is steady on Ellana’s face. Solas wonders what Varric’s angle is: normally, the merchant is more sensitive about such issues. Perhaps, Varric just feels the same curiosity that they all seem to – who is this woman, this weaver of words, and why was she the one to survive the explosion? 

“Athenril took on a bad client.” Ellana doesn’t use her storyteller’s voice now. Her knees are up in front of her, her fingers loosely laced. The firelight flickers over her, but the green of her eyes is lost in the gloom. “He was a mage. Athenril sent my father and me on the mission. As elves, we were less jittery around mages, compared to the humans she employed.”

“We are used to magic,” she says by way of explanation to the humans around the circle. “Dalish clans are led by a mage, you see.”

“What did he want?” 

“He claimed to want ingredients for some concoction.” Her gaze drops and her fingers lace again, more tightly this time. Solas wishes he could reach out and sooth the tension in her hands. He wanted to hear these stories, but he would have rather done so in private, away from all these eager faces. Ellana looks up again, and her eyes are glassy.

“As it turns out, he wanted blood to summon a demon.” There are no audible gasps, but Solas feels shock around the circle. “My father knew something was wrong, but it was too late for us to respond. The mage stabbed my father and summoned a demon.”

No one prompted to speak when the silence fell. The fire popped, and the air was cold around them.

“I tried to save him, but the demon threw me aside and finished the job.” She swallows, but apart from that, her expression is remarkably calm. “My father died quickly. The mage wanted the demon to help him resurrect something. Thought the offering of a living thing would buy him some gratitude.” 

Solas has heard this story many times before. Not Ellana’s, exactly, but those of mortals with demands. Foolish people who mistakenly assumed that a little sacrifice and blood could buy them favours from powers they did not understand.

The silence stretches, and Cassandra opens her mouth to say something. No doubt about to offer some stolid but well-intended reassurance. But then the Herald speaks.

“Thank you, Scout Harding.” She meets the dwarven woman’s gaze and smiles softly. Harding brightens at her words, and Solas empathizes with brightened pride that Ellana’s approval can make you feel. “I have not spoken of my father’s death in some time. It is good to remember these things.”

She stands then, and Solas nearly feels her veneer slide back into place. Her voice again becomes controlled, smooth as she steers the situation the way she wants.

“I do not doubt that you have all lived through such travesties.” Her eyes travel the circle and stop to rest on each person in their camp. “Hard times are our constant companion, whether it’s a Blight or a mage rebellion, or a hole in our sky.”

She pauses then, and they wait with eager anticipation for her next words. Even Solas cannot pretend he is above being enthralled.

“We all have our own reasons for being here. I fight for my father, and for the memory of a pain a demon can cause. Closing the rifts keeps the demons at bay. But you all serve in equally important ways. Gathering information, liaising with the local population, and establishing footholds so that our name, the Inquisition’s name, can be a force for good – you too, keep the demons at bay.”

She smiles and Solas watches as each of the soldiers smiles back. 

“Thank you for your efforts.”

There are mutters around the circle, mutual appreciation and bashful dismissals. Varric, sensing a pause, releases them all.

“Come on now folks, let’s get a guard rotation going.”

Spell broken, they disperse. Cassandra puts a hand on Ellana’s arm, mutters a few words and then turns and heads into her tent. Solas stands too, approaches her soundlessly.

“You seem to excel at this, da’len.”

She looks over at him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. He forgets, from her presence, that she is not very large, stands some inches shorter than himself.

“I do not find the sharing easy,” she admits, and he is struck at the incongruity. Such raw honesty, so openly delivered. How does that fit with the effortless way she crafts her image, with the control she exerts over how she appears? “But a good friend told me that it will help.”

“And does it?” He tilts his head, wants only to banish the pain he sees between her eyebrows as she ponders his question.

“It does.” She sounds surprised.

“Then I hope you will continue to share, at least with me.” He means the words, and they sound exactly as intense as he intended. She does not hesitate to respond. Her face transforms, gone is the contemplative introspection, replaced with a cheeky smile and a light in her eyes.

“Thank you, Solas. Perhaps I will.”

She saunters off and disappears behind a tent flap, and he’s left alone with his thoughts.

*  
_Commander,_

 _The Crossroads is secured. We closed the rifts and disposed of the mages and Templars in the vicinity. The Herald spoke with Mother Giselle, and she returns to Haven with information about Chantry contacts. Expect her shortly._

 _

Thus far, the Herald has remained above suspicion in her conduct. Her fighting style is reckless, and she has no experience with group command. She is, however, effective at bolstering morale, both of the refugees and of our own troops.

I will supplement her failings with instruction. Tomorrow, I will make her take full leadership of the group when we engage in combat. We cannot have a figurehead for a leader; the Herald must be combat and command ready.

We have interrogated the horsemaster you located. He offered his support, but had several conditions. We are scouting locations for watchtowers and will send further details when available.

Leliana apparently made a request of the Herald to investigate Grey Warden activity in the area. I will permit the Herald to do so, so long as it does not distract from our work for Dennet. I anticipate our return within the fortnight.

Cassandra

_  



	5. Change of Scene

_“And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.”_

*

Blackwall is very new to all this, at least in recent memory. They ride back to Haven together, and he finds his throat is hoarse from all the speaking. An amusing prospect, given how little he’s spoken compared to his newfound companions. The Seeker pesters him with questions, and he knows that she’s getting hard facts for her report. The dwarf jibes at him with the deliberate ease of someone trying to get him to reveal his secrets, but Blackwall knows all his tricks and meets them with polite but final statements. And the so-called Herald, the lithe elf who gallops ahead to scout and then waits for them to catch up – he knows her type as well.

She is firm, confident when she tells him that she knows he is. Clearly unbelieving when he tells him he knows nothing of the Wardens whereabouts. And he doesn’t – why should he? But, of course, he cannot tell her the real reasons.

“Who nominated you to pass judgement on our order?” His tone matched hers in firmness, irked at the assertion that the Wardens would flee from duty.

“I do not pass judgement,” she answered, stepping up and into his space. Normally, he’d back away, or pull his blade, but he does not feel threatened by this little elf with her angry green eyes and double daggers. “I simply state what we have observed. Where have the Wardens gone, Ser Blackwall?”

Her companions stand at an appropriate distance, watching without feeling the need to intercede. It’s clear this elf is their leader, though he finds that unlikely. They are a motley crew that sound like the beginning of a bag joke: an angry Seeker, sassy dwarf and spooky bald apostate walk into a bar. That they are united behind someone as unremarkable as an unmarked elf in dark leather armour perplexes him – her apparent simplicity makes him wonder at the respect she seems to command.

“I cannot speak for my brothers and sisters.” Blackwall says. “But I can assure you that their absence has nothing to do with that shit in the sky.”

She is closer than he lets anyone get, nevermind the fact that she is essentially a stranger. She holds his gaze and he stares back, ruddy brown into deep emerald, and Blackwall will not concede. Is excited by the challenge in her eyes and her stance as she searches him for the slightest hint of a lie. She will not find it in his face. He has played this game before, was probably playing it before she was born, though you can never be sure of an elf's age.

“So be it.” And then she is gone, out of his space and walking away. Leaving cool air and the scent of her in the air when she had stood. 

“See you around, Warden Blackwall.” Her voice is melodious and low and for a moment he almost thinks he is being seduced. No, the voice in his mind reprimands him, what's there to see in an old man wandering the woods like a hermit?

“Herald, perhaps we should seek an alliance?” The Seeker is at the elf’s heels in an instant, offering advice, and they converse as the group walks away from him. He is left with the corpses they downed together, and he feels the moment slipping through his fingers.

Ripples in a pond. A small rock, a little elf who drops into his world and sends waves cascading out around her. He rides the undulation of the ripple before coming to a decision. When he woke that morning, he hadn’t expected one of these crossroad moments where life can take a brand new course.

It has been so long since he committed to something. Prolonged company was a foreign feeling. But in their fleeting exchange, all hard edges and sharp, accusatory banter, he feels something. Inspired, perhaps, by the loyalty apparent in the three mismatched warriors that trail after the elf.

“They call you the Herald of Andraste?” He pitches his voice to carry, and it does. The party stops, and again they wait on her command. When she turns, the elf, dwarf and woman permit themselves to turn as well.

“That is what they say.” The “Herald” walks closer. 

“And what do you believe?” Blackwall doesn’t know if the answer is important to him. But he knows that he will learn more about her by her answer, and _that_ is important to him.

“I am an agent of the Inquisition.” She gives him a look that’s meant as a challenge. “Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

Unpretentious but assured, she puts a hand on her hip and doesn’t drop his gaze. Her face is carefully blank now. Blackwall pauses, breathes in sharply, and changes his fate.

“If your Inquisition is a force for good, I would lend it my blade.”

Her eyebrow quirks and her gaze falls to the carnage they caused together, only moments before. 

“Your blade?” She offers a half smile and he ignores the implication.

“Yes. And more than that, I bring contacts that only the Grey Wardens can leverage.” He steps closer to her now, feels himself winning her over with the force of his appeal. “A growing force like the Inquisition can hardly turn its back on a trained darkspawn slayer, soldier, and strategic ally.”

“Well when you put it like that,” The smile she offers him now is wide, and Blackwall has a sneaking suspicion that maybe he’s been played. Like she wanted the offer all along and knew exactly how to get it. _You are only as good as those you choose to follow,_ he remembers loosely, a memory that is all his own. What type of leader she is remains to be seen.

“Welcome aboard, Warden Blackwall.” She turns then, springs forward on light steps and moving with a feline grace that his tired bones and stiff ligaments ache to witness. “You’d best fall in line.” 

He met the others, as the day wore on, and was impressed by each one. Strong mannerisms and opinions, and all so different. A sense of purpose guiding the lot of them. He pondered again at the incongruity of their arrangement: these able fighters and adept survivors were deferent to her? Ellana Lavellan, alleged Herald of Andraste?

But then he saw her close a rift and he understood why. After they first appeared, he’d tried to destroy a rift himself, stood amidst the swirl of the green, killing demon after demon in an onslaught that never broke. He’d abandoned hope and fled instead, found himself marshalling cottagers into a militia. 

When the Herald spotted a rift in the distance, he thought she’d order them around it, cut them a different path because by now they must’ve realized that the demons just kept coming. But instead, she straightened their course and led them straight toward it.

It was immediately apparent to Blackwall that this fighting-the-rift business was second nature to them. Lavellan didn’t even need to call out orders, as she had when they were assaulted by a bear, but instead scrambled up onto a rock and let her allies do the work. Solas, Varric and Cassandra fell easily into place, the warrior in front, bearing the brunt of the demons as Solas and Varric picked off the others that circled around. Blackwall, not sure what else to do, fell on the nearest demon.

A noise like thunder ripping through cloudy skies reverberated, and Blackwall paused so suddenly he was nearly caught by the upward strike of the demon’s claw. Overhead, green light arched out from the rift. When he followed it back, the jagged light connected inexplicably into Lavellan’s body, disappearing into her left palm. He couldn’t make out her expression, lost as it was in the flashes of brightness and colour. But her spine was taut and her thighs flexed, knees bent to hold her exactly in place, and Blackwell suspected she was in pain. Maker, he was in pain from the nearness of it; the sound, the sensation of a primordial force pulling on him, beckoning him towards the rift. 

The pressure grew, the demons quaked as if they too were being drawn back into the Fade, and just when he thought his head would explode, it stopped. 

Lavellan was on her knees, panting. The other companions paid her no mind, Solas scooping up the gooey leftovers of a foe, Varric rifling through the remains for something worthwhile. But Blackwall stood riveted, eyes on the Herald as she struggled to catch her breath. Deep heaves and the air moved in and out of her chest; an impatient hand pushed dark locks out of her eyes and he noticed she was cut. A shallow thing across her bicep that had pierced her leather and bled profusely. 

“Let me bind that for you,” he is walking forward, feels he needs to help because the others are all apparently oblivious to her struggle. 

“No, no,” she holds a hand out to him and her voice is hoarse, like she’d run a mile through winter chill. “I need a moment.”

She stands and staggers away, back turned to them.

“The Herald prefers some distance after a rift.” Cassandra’s voice, and the woman is at his side, following his gaze to the elf in dark armour and tall boots. Lavellan’s hand reaches out, braces on a tree and he can still see her shoulders lift and fall with the exertion of her breathing.

“The cottagers said the Herald could do this.” His voice has an awe that he doesn’t bother to suppress. “Said she’d closed the rift near the Crossroads, made the town much safer.”

“It’s true.” Cassandra is not given to embellishment or story-weaving. Her response is terse but complete. They’d done all those things and more, Blackwall would soon learn.

“They spoke of her like she was Andraste made flesh.” Blackwall wipes his blade down, suddenly needing to be doing something as he tried to process what he’d seen. “I scoffed at them. Told them to bugger off and learn to take care of themselves. Told ‘em there was no way a tree-loving elf was going to prance into their lives and fix it all up.”

He glances over at Cassandra and sees what might be the makings of a small smile on the Seeker’s face.

“And what do you think now?”

Lavellan squares her shoulders and turns to face them. 

“Come on now. Less chit chat, more walking.” Her face is flushed, but the elf’s voice is firm again. “We’ve got watchtowers to scout out.” 

And she’s past them, moving with the poise of a hart on a mountainside, her steps quick and sure as she brings them over cliffs. 

He didn’t answer Cassandra’s question back then, chose silence instead and fell in behind the group. But he thinks back on it now as they ride towards Haven, and he decides that he isn’t sure who she is or what her power makes her. But they close two more rifts on their journey through the Hinterlands, and he decides that he can get behind any cause that’s trying to stitch their world back together.

“Thinking profound thoughts, Warden Blackwall?” She is at his side and somehow he hadn’t noticed. The sun is rising and the angle of it makes long shadows from the trees, throws her in the darkness as shade from his solid figure obscures her slighter one.

He snorts. “More like wondering what’s to eat for lunch. That, and how the Inquisition’s chief agent is so bad on a horse.”

She frowns at him, a playful expression of token disapproval.

“You noticed then,” The Herald sits uncomfortably high in the saddle, as if ready to spring out at any moment, and the reins are gripped tightly in her gloved hands.

“I had a better seat when I was eight years old.” 

“You think that a pack of Dalish elves could afford the luxury of horses?”

Blackwall hasn’t known many elves, though he did encounter more than one Dalish clan when he was in and around Wycome. He wonders, fleetingly, if perhaps he’s met the Herald before in years long past. 

“Don’t Dalish have the whole ‘one with nature’ animal business?” He isn’t disrespectful, just curious, and the Herald seems to understand that. He’s glad for her patience and for the laugh that his deliberate ignorance brings out from her.

“I suppose we do.” The sun rises higher and catches her face as she pushes her horse a few steps ahead of his. Her dark, wavy hair, pulled back from her face and threaded with thin braids, shines a soft chestnut brown in the light and her viridian eyes are lively. In that moment, Blackwall understands why some men lust after elven girls. She continues speaking, pries him out of his thoughts.

“But humans see many things in terms of coins and hard values. Horses make a Clan like mine a target for unwanted attention.” 

“Ah,” he says, understanding. “Horse thieves.”

She nods. “Yes, and worse.” Her tone bears no judgement but he thinks he sees frustration in the contraction of her eyebrows. “Halla make less of a target – the humans have little use for an animal that cannot bear their weight or till their fields.”

Her gaze moves on from him, scans the horizon and her brow furrows as she squints into the rising sun.

“Now, give me a halla or a hart and I’ll outrun the lot of you. You and your heavy Ferelden horses wouldn’t stand a chance against a Dalish raised wild hart.” She glances back to Master Dennet, and the horsemaster grins at her barb.

“Savage beasts, the lot of them.” The horsemaster says. “Too unpredictable, too skittish. When you’re galloping headlong into battle against a pack of armoured soldiers, you’ll be grateful for your clunky Ferelden charger.”

“Master Dennet has a point.” Blackwall concedes, if only to keep the conversation going. 

“I have a point too,” Lavellan runs a hand over her horse’s neck. “These animals are big. My skinny little elven thighs get tired just keeping me upright.”

He guffaws then, and the laughter is doubled when Varric chimes in with a “here, here” and a gestures to his own stumpy dwarven legs and the over-high stirrups of his human saddle.

“With proper instruction, anyone can become an adept horse rider.” Blackwall speaks absently and knows it is true because he has given that instruction dozens of times. Turned twiggy stripling lads into proper soldiers, one with their beast and ready for war.

“Are you offering to teach me, Warden Blackwall?” He didn’t expect the question, and at first thinks she is teasing him. But when he meets her eyes, her gaze is genuine and her expression hopeful.

“If it will keep you from falling off your horse next time we get to rift, I suppose I’d better.” Blackwall is pleased and her evident delight. “For the greater good and all.”

They laugh, and the feeling of company warms him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed absent chatter and impossible stories. He was surprised at how easily it all comes back, the social graces and timing of a joke told well, the right questions in the right moments. The trappings of civilization fall into place around him, and he wonders if he deserves any of it.

When they arrive at Haven, his doubts are eased. He can do good here: when he spots bad form in the ranks of the training soldiers, when he sees the smithy overrun with orders and lacking able hands, when he meets the Inquisition’s Antivan Ambassador, he knows that his knowledge will be put to good use. Will work towards noble ends. 

He sits outside the smithy at the end of his first day in Haven, oddly at peace as the stars come out. Perhaps here, mired in the Inquisition’s cause, he can finally redeem himself. He closes his eyes and offers a silent prayer to the Maker – _may what’s in the past remain forever in the past._

*  
Josephine purses her lips in disapproval.

“This will not do.”

With a solid _thwack_ the Herald hits the muddy dirt outside Haven’s walls. The elf is laughing uproariously, and cackles only harder as the horse rears and she has to roll away from the animal’s flailing hooves.

“You really are quite awful.” Cassandra’s voice from the sidelines and the Herald is laughing so hard she can’t get up. Instead, she lies there, her back on the ground. Glares at Blackwall as he shimmies his horse over and looks down at her, unimpressed.

Cassandra sighs, uncrossing her arms and walks over to the Herald, giving her a hand up.

“Oh, lighten up Josie.” Josephine turns her eyes to Leliana’s face. 

“It was right for Blackwall to offer assistance.” Cullen concedes. Of course he would, Josephine thinks. Training and rationality. Eliminating weakness. “With the amount of travel the Herald does, a good seat is essential.”

She sighs and pushes a curl behind her ear wishing that her fellow advisors would take their position more seriously. Just this morning, more threats from the Chantry arrived, demanding they hand over the heretic and abandon their blasphemous cause. 

That same heretic was groaning now as Cassandra gave her a boost back into the saddle. 

“I don’t see why you need to hit me too, Blackwall.” Her usually melodious voice is disgruntled now, and Josephine can tell she’s feeling the results of the morning’s trials. “Isn’t it enough to just gallop around in circles, mocking me?”

“You think an angry Templar is going to settle for mocking you from afar?” Blackwall wheels around, a single unit of power and control on his horse. Him, Josephine approves of. When Lavellan groans, the Ambassador wonders at the contrast of it all: one moment, the Herald is all elegant words and rousing speeches. The next, she’s laughing like a teenager rolling in the mud.

“Ugh.” Josephine’s noise of frustration draws surprised glances from both Cullen and Leliana. “I can’t watch this any longer. She is _literally_ rolling in the mud.”

Blackwall’s instructive lecture complete, the two horses part, and the Warden gallops at her again, practice sword out. The Herald tries to swerve out of the way, to duck under his blade but even Josephine can tell the angle is all wrong.

_Whack._

Straight across the collarbones and she’s in the air. Almost. One foot caught in a stirrup and she hangs awkwardly off the side of the horse. Varric’s laughter is so loud it wins out over her strangled shouts.

“Josie, these people see her trying to improve herself.” Leliana again, but Josephine isn’t sold.

_Thump._ The Herald’s foot has come loose and she’s back on the ground, Cassandra at her side. Blackwall, seasoned trainer that he is, recites her mistakes and the Herald tries to look attentive as she listens. Tries, but there are limits to how studious one can look when splayed across the ground, caked in dirt and blossoming bruises.

“Surely, that isn’t so bad?” Leliana’s tone is patient, and Josephine knows that her friend is secretly laughing inside: Leliana is always devilishly amused by Josephine’s sensibilities. 

“I will admit, the Herald certainly has grit.” Cullen almost sounds impressed as the elf hoists herself back in the saddle and gets in position once more. “It does not hurt that our soldiers see her dedication.”

“Or her humanity.” Leliana adds.

Josephine knows these are important points, but she cannot be so certain. Ellana is an elf, after all. Even though the rumours say she walks with Andraste’s blessing, cultivating an image of piety and justice will not be easy. It’s hard to believe that falling on her behind or rolling in the mud will bridge the gap between their races.

But this time, the Herald manages to keep her seat as she charges at Blackwall. She pivots in the saddle, rotating with a deftness no human could match, and her blade connects with Blackwall’s shoulder. A cheer goes up amongst the townsfolk who’ve come to watch the spectacle.

“See?” Leliana raises an eyebrow at her, to which Josephine huffs out a breath.

“Fine.” The Ambassador spins with a rustle of her skirts, and marches up the steps to the Chantry, recognizing when she has lost. Instead of arguing with those she will not convince, she returns to the small solace that her make-shift study provides. When she sits at her desk again and eyes the stack of unopened letters, she feels the beginning of a headache creep up on her. 

Haven is a musty, drafty place but it is also theirs out of tentative goodwill. The hard Ferelden furniture and biting cold are not to Josephine’s liking, but she knows all too well how little say they have in the matter. The Herald and her team may have done good work at the Crossroads, and the addition of Mother Giselle and the Warden Blackwall have bolstered the townsfolk’s confidence in the moral stance of their mission. But with each letter she opens, the Inquisition is either scolded for their foolishness or condemned for their heretical beliefs. Chantry Mothers, Chancellors, Orlesian nobles and Ferelden teyrn’s who see little change in the discord in their lands. Each with their own demands or instructions.

When Leliana first offered her the position of Ambassador, Kirkwall was aflame and civil war erupted around the Royal Palace in Orlais. The chaos was palpable and Leliana was a friend: in the spymaster’s words, Josephine felt both desperation and sincerity. This crisis needed an intervention. Josephine, remembering the days when she longed to be a Bard and play at secrets and control, was allured in equal parts by the opportunity for positive change and the promise of power. 

Sitting in the flickering candlelight, wishing for a warm cup of tea that she knew she couldn’t have, she felt neither of those things. Felt powerless, unable to evoke the kinds of changes she wanted to see. The door creaked open gently, and green eyes peaked around the edge.

“Ambassador, do you have a moment?”

Startled, Josephine straightened.

“Of course.” She corrected her spine, pulled her shoulders back and gestured expansively to the humble seat in front of her. Wished she could offer the Herald some of that tea she’d imagined. In the Antivan Embassy, any guest would have been announced and treated to aperitifs and soft music. Josephine lets the homesick longing and regret fall away like leaves in autumn. She puts a welcoming smile on her face instead.  
“Is there anything I can do for you?” 

For the first time that Josephine can remember, the Herald looks almost bashful. Josephine is used to the intent, attentive Herald, listening to mission instructions. And she is used to the assertive, teasing Herald, when Lavellan knows she has the higher ground. This elf, standing in the doorway, still spattered with mud from the training yard, her hair a lopsided mess, is neither of these extremes.

“Come in, Herald.” Josephine stands and walks around the table, her ledger in hand in case she needs to make notes. “Whatever could you have to apologize for?”

“The spymaster scolded me.” Josephine has noticed that the Herald does not often say Leliana’s name. She has been monitoring the relationship between the two ever since Leliana’s heated ‘interrogation’. Another instance of Leliana going too far, too quickly, Josephine thought.

“Indeed? And what have you done that is so deserving of reproach?”

Lavellan pulls herself full around the door, closing it behind her. 

“Apparently the ‘Herald of Andraste’ isn’t supposed to ‘frolic in the mud like a pagan child.’” 

Josephine held in a sigh.

“Is that what Leliana said?”

Lavellan nodded. Josephine noticed the beginnings of a bruise up from her collarbone and along the base of her neck. The colour was muddy on the Herald’s sun-browned skin, and Josephine wished she could wipe the mark away.

“She said you were most distressed.” Lavellan’s hands are clasped in front of herself, twisting nervously in her dark leather gloves. Cassandra and Cullen had chosen her armour; dark leathers with a sturdy vest and a utility belt. High supple boots and tight breeches for maximum movement. _We must not hinder her speed,_ Cassandra had insisted. _It is her greatest asset._ Cullen had been nervous about the lack of protective layering, but the armour fit Lavellan like a glove, made her look capable. Like a leader. Josephine approved. Except when it was covered in mud from the Haven training yard.

“Is it because I’m an elf?”

Josephine snapped out of her thoughts at the trace of worry in the Herald’s tone.

“Of course not,” she insisted quickly, and then she cursed herself for the fatal flaw of diplomacy: reacting with feeling before thought. “Well, in truth…” The words tapered off. She sighed. “Have a seat, Herald.”

Josephine was reassured by the familiar arrangement – seated with pristine posture, across the negotiating table from a colleague. This was how the Ambassador best prepared for a sensitive conversation. It is a moment too late when she realizes that this was also where the Herald sat and was berated by Leliana. Josephine still did not know the full contents of their conversation – Leliana refused to share – but she could tell from the tension in the Herald’s shoulders that the elf was thinking back to that moment.

“I spoke in haste, Herald, and I apologize.” She laid one hand over the other, meeting Lavellan’s gaze. “Because you are an elf, the Inquisition must be especially sensitive as to your external appearance.”

“So frolicking in the mud is out? Too stereotypical for forest-bred knife-ear?” The words are harsh, but Lavellan’s face is a neutral pane, revealing no hurt or sensitivity.

“I did not use those words.” Josephine is bitter at Leliana for a moment, and wonders why the spymaster found it fit to intervene. 

“You are not most humans, Ambassador.”

“Ah.” Lavellan had heard, then. Of course she had – you couldn’t travel amongst humans and avoid the slurs and allegations. “I apologize for the rumours.”

The Herald laughs, but there is no mirth in it. 

“Ambassador, you forget that I lived in Kirkwall.” Her smile then is crooked and dark. “Baby-snatching, human sacrifice, dancing naked in the moonlight – there isn’t a rumour under the sun I haven’t heard and laughed at.”

“Dragon mating?”

Lavellan’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Well, now, I’m impressed.” She is teasing, and Josephine relaxes slightly. “That’s one I’ve heard about the Qunari, but not about elves. But really. Have the shems ever seen a dragon? Or an elf? There’s some basic anatomy that doesn’t line up there.”

Josephine joins her in the laughter, but she also realizes the, in some ways, the Herald has seen more of the world that she has. Dragons and Dalish elves – sleeping under the stars. It was terrible to indulge in the same stereotypes they were discussing, but the Herald’s travels in the wilds of Thedas were a source of wonder to the Ambassador. 

“Still, you are our Herald.” Josephine’s voice is warm with genuine affection: another elf in Lavellan’s shoes might be less forgiving. She is grateful that Lavellan is who she is – unfathomable as her survival was, the Inquisition had received no greater boon. “It does not do to have you or your people disrespected in our own camp.”

“I hardly think the Dalish consider me one of their own.” She gestures to her face and it takes a moment for Josephine to follow. The absence of vallaslin – for an elf of Lavellen’s age that lack is atypical. 

“It matters not what they think – superficially, humans will always see you as an elf.” Josephine is thinking now, assessing their options. “I will do my best to quell these rumours.”

Lavellan leans back and crosses an ankle across her knee. “And what will you replace them with? Andrastian propaganda?”

“Yes,” she answers truthfully, levelling her gaze with the elf. “And maybe even some truth, just for fun.”

Lavellan quirks an eyebrow. Josephine is taken for a moment at how elegant her face is, high arching cheekbones and smooth slopes. 

“So daring, Ambassador.” Another teasing note and sincere grin. Josephine flashes her a coy smile in return.

“Indeed. Now it would help me if I knew a little more of how your Clan lived.”

The Herald sighs in thought, sitting back in her chair. 

“I take it you did not read my journals?” The question is a guarded one, and Josephine can no longer read the Herald’s expression. She wonders, not for the first time, what details lay in the journals that did not make it into Leliana’s report. With all the inquiries they received after the explosion at the Conclave, she’d had little opportunity to read the Herald’s journal herself. 

“No, I did not.”

The Herald lets out a small breath. Her voice is different when she speaks again, strictly controlled to ebb and flow with the rises and swells of her narrative. A storyteller’s voice, Josephine realizes, and she distantly remembers her lessons in Dalish culture. A people of oral tradition, clinging to a past that ennobled them through shared tales, told across time. 

Lavellan speaks of her Clan and its Keeper. Of her father and mother, the warleader and his huntress partner. Of the hearthmistress, and the warm bannock she cooked. She painted each with a colour and a liveliness that swept Josephine along, buoyant on the flow of her words. In between the descriptions of custom and culture, she wove her own story. Told of her father, his darkness, and their trip to Kirkwall.

“Elhan is a hunter now,” she spoke of her brother with a warmth that made Josephine realize just how distant she normally was. The affection in her words on Elhan was unlike anything in her interactions with the Inquisition. “But when I saw him once more, after all those years…” 

“Was he upset with your father? For taking you away?” Riveted, Josephine cannot help the question. She knows she should give the Herald time to think, but does not want to wait.

“How could he be?” Lavellan’s knees are tucked up beneath her chin now, her eyes contemplative. “My father was with the Creators. Elhan was an elf full-grown and a father himself. He ran fastest, shot farthest, hunted best. He was more than we’d ever hoped for him, so much the grown-up.”

“A part of me feels like Kirkwall was all a holding cell. A place between me and true responsibilities. I survived with diverse people and diverse ways, and for a moment, it almost was home.” Her brow lowers, ever so slightly, her voice falling out of its story-teller poise. “But things changed. But it wasn’t until I finally returned to my Clan that I realized just how drastic that change was.” 

“Amongst the Dalish, I felt restless. They are a beautiful people with a solemn, slow way of life. We Dalish survive on future promises, on the hope that your race will fall and there will be a place for us again in this world.”

The Ambassador reflects that this is the longest conversation she has ever had with the Herald. She loses the sense of how much time it’s been, focusing instead on the elf’s words. 

“But you did not feel at home? When you returned?” Antiva would always be home for Josephine, and Antivans would always be her people. Simple geography and time could never erode those bonds. But Lavellan shakes her head and gestures with a hand though words do not come immediately. When she finally speaks, it is clear that she has struggled with the question herself.

“Before I returned to the Dalish, I lived with another elf in the woods. We travelled, and she taught me much. I lost all sense of time with Marethan – I… needed that break. From everything.”

Josephine sensed, in the gaps in Lavellan’s narrative, that there was much hardship the elf did not share. The Ambassador knew better than to push for those details.

“And when I returned to my clan, they welcomed me as one of their own. The first fifteen years of my life were with them – their faces and ways would always be familiar to me. I guess what changed is that they weren’t enough for me anymore.”

That, Josephine can understand. She’d felt it too – a master negotiator and chief ambassador for Antiva. Where could she go next? Then Leliana had appeared with an impossible task. At first, Josephine had dismissed the idea as fanciful. But the more she thought on it, the more the challenge of the position demanded her attention.

“So when your Clan called for volunteer to spy at the Conclave…?”

Lavellan nods. “Yes. I jumped at the chance. How could I not? My experiences in Kirkwall made me strategically suited for it as well: my isolationist clan had little dealings with humans, but I had lived amongst them for years. If anyone could slip in, disguised and unnoticed, it was me.”

Josephine inclines her head.

“An astute choice.”

“I remember so little of the rest. I had only just arrived. There were so many people, and the temple was _so beautiful_.” Lavellan looks up, pulls out of her thoughts and meets Josephine’s eyes. “And then I was waking up to the lovely combination of Leliana’s judgement and Cassandra’s rage.”

Josephine laughs softly. 

“I apologize. You must understand what our position was.”

“Of course,” Lavellan waves a hand and again Josephine is thankful for her magnanimous ways. Chained and questioned – some might not be so quick to forget the circumstances of her arrival in Haven. 

“My Clan must think I am dead.”

“Would you like to write a letter to them?” Josephine asks, and it’s so simple she wonders why she has not already suggested it. 

Lavellan’s eyes brighten.

“It would not be an unnecessary diversion of resources?”

Josephine smiled and reached out, took the elf’s hand in two of hers. Lavellan tensed at first, but then relaxed and returned the Ambassador’s smile.

“Ellana,” the sound of her first name is foreign, almost daringly informal, on Josephine’s lips, but the Ambassador realized as the Herald spoke that the Clan name, ‘Lavellan’, likely had less significance to her. “The Inquisition would be nothing without you and your dedication. If even the smallest acts can grant you comfort, I would happily perform them.”

Ellana seems shocked at the sudden intensity of Josephine’s words.

“Thank you, Ambassador.” She nods, draws her hands back and stands. “I will pen something right away.” She turns to leave and then pauses, looking over her shoulder. “I hope that our chat has given you some ammunition for your counter-rumours?”

“Certainly,” Josephine says, though she doesn’t know if that’s entirely true. The more Ellana spoke, the more it became apparent that she was not entirely Dalish. But neither was she entirely a city-elf like the Hero of Ferelden, raised under the yoke of oppression, the victim of violent wrongs by human hands. But there was enough for Josephine to work with – she was, after all, born and raised an elven hunter, quick on her feet and quicker with a bow. The grace she moved with would support any story that painted her as capable, competent – a provider, once for her Clan and now for the Inquisition.

“So, I never got an answer to that question.” She’s at the door now, preparing to go. 

“Hm?” Josephine tilts her head, a curl falling over her forehead.

“No rolling in the mud then?” The Herald is genuinely curious. She will stop, if Josephine asks her to.

“I suppose rolling in the mud is acceptable, assuming it’s in the support of a good cause like your training.” She replies, her tone dry.

“Good,” The Herald brightens and Josephine is worried. “Because I also intend to do some unglamorous sparring. You know, in the name of the higher cause of my learning.”

She disappears before the Ambassador can even groan. 

When Ellana returns, later in the evening, it is to give Josephine a letter. 

“Thank you, Ambassador.” She pauses then, as if considering whether or not to speak. “I know you, or Leliana, or someone with have to read it. If I had the choice, I would prefer that it was you.”

Ellana smiles and then is gone before Josephine can even muster a polite reply. Knowing the elf spoke truly – all Inquisition mail was monitored, typically through Leliana - Josephine starts to unravel the letter. Is secretly glad for a reason to learn more about the Herald. 

_Elhan,_

_Surprise!_

_Yes, I am still alive. So stop frowning – I know you’re frowning._

_Where do I even begin? So much has happened, and so much of it is incomprehensible. Inexplicable, like a miracle of Mythal. I am in Haven now and amongst allies._

_Let me first confirm what you likely already know. There was an explosion at the Conclave: a force both great and terrible ripped a hole in the fabric of the world, opening a breach between Thedas and the Fade. The explosion killed everyone at the Conclave. Everyone except me._

_I have no memory of what happened. When I awoke, I was with the Inquisition. They were suspicious of me, but also needed my assistance. You see, whatever took place at the Conclave left me marked. You may have seen the green rifts all across the land: the mark in my hand gives me the power to close these and seal our world off from the demons._

_I know what you are thinking. You want me to come home. You don’t believe half of what I’m writing. You think that few nights back in a camp, on the move, under the stars – that all these things will settle me and make me Dalish again._

_You know as well as I do, Elhan, that when father took me to Kirkwall, he made it impossible for me to ever truly be one of the People. I could not tell you that when last we met: I knew how the admission will hurt you. I’m sure it hurts you now, and for that I am sorry._

_Something has happened to me, and I don’t understand it. But I know that this mark on my hand gives me a purpose I did not have with the Clan. I need you to accept that, and I need you to let me be where I have to be._

_The mark scares me. It aches in the night sometimes, as if it calls to be used. And when I seal the rifts, it feels like liquid fire in my veins. But it is a part of me now._

_The Inquisition has asked me to join them. They are not so different from you and me, human though they may be. Full of spirit and an honest desire to make the world a better place._

_I saw darkness when I was in Kirkwall, Elhan. I see it still in the mages and Templars who cut each other down because that is all they remember how to do. I see it in the eyes of human children without enough food to eat – their suffering is the same as ours in the midst of a bad winter. And I want to do my part to remedy it all._

_I owe these people my survival. Without their aid, I would have died alone in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And a part of me hopes that by doing good with them, I can change the way they look at our kind. Like the Hero of Ferelden made a name for city-elves._

_I have failed Keeper Deshanna in that I have no reconnaissance that I can report. And I worry that I have failed you because it feels so right to be here, in Haven. I am lonely, at times, yes, and often the walls are just too much. Pressing in over my head like a prison. But I am free to come and go as I like, and what’s more, my advice and ideas are heeded, my actions relied upon. You cannot truthfully tell me that I could find all of this amongst our Clan._

_When this is all over, I promise I will see you again. Until then, I hope you can forgive me and can understand. Pass on my affections and regards._

_Ellana_

Josephine puts the letter down and sighs softly. It is nighttime now, and tomorrow they will prepare the Herald for the trip to Val Royeaux. Ellana’s letter has saddened the Ambassador – something in the words feels heavy and isolated. Ellana, confident though she is about the Inquisition’s intentions, writes like she seeks to convince herself as well as her brother.

_The burden weighs on us all_ , she thinks. Are they doing the right thing? She seals the letter and puts it in her outgoing post tray. Time, she decides, will be their only judge.


	6. Tight Spaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One for the Cullen fans. Are you ready for the most contrived situation ever?

_“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”_

*

Cullen is up before the sun, as always. His hands are shaking and he is on his knees in front of the chest at the foot of his bed. His lyrium stash is open before he realizes it, his fingers wrapping around the cool vial and the sense of sweet release just on the verge of engulfing him.

_Stop._

He’s on his feet, staggering back into the darkness of the room, a strangled cry from his throat. Not this again.

The surges of want are worse after the Breach appeared. Sweat rolls down his bare chest, following the path his muscles have defined, and he reminds himself just to breath.

_Blessed are they who stand before…_

With a frustrated grunt he runs his hands through his damp hair.

_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

His breathing steadies, the rise and fall of his shoulders slowing. He casts around the room for a rag, wipes his face down, runs it across his torso. 

_Blessed are the peacekeepers._

His amber eyes pass over the window and he judges that the sun will be up in a bit. Cullen decides he needs a distraction, can’t stay cooped up inside.

_The champions of the just._

Benedictions give him comfort, as he sweeps his hair back from his forehead and shrugs into his linen shirt and then his breastplate. Though his dedication to the words is an integral part of his Templar past, their familiarity long predates his days as a boy in training. He grew up to the slow recitations of the Chant of Light, the reverent invocations on holidays and the eerie susurrations of the hymns on feast days. 

He shoulders out of his room and makes his way out into the crisp pre-dawn air, his breath misting in the winter chill. Haven is asleep around him, but he needs the walk to slow the hammer of his heart against his ribcage. At night, the call of the lyrium is strong. In the daytime, his responsibilities beckon and reduce the song to a dull thud in the back of his head. But he is defenceless when he rests. Cullen knows what it is to be without defences. He intends never to feel that way again.

Nodding to the night watch guards, he decides he should speak, say something that makes it look like he _wants_ to be up and about before the sun. Like he isn’t simple deranged, a victim of his desires. By fooling them, can he fool himself?

“Anything to report?” His voice is more curt than he intended, but Cullen is simply pleased that it’s more than a hoarse whisper.

“No, Commander. Quiet night all around.” The man’s accent is from Denerim, triggers his name in Cullen’s mind.

“Very good, Boyle. As you were.” The soldier brightens at his name, pleased the Commander has remembered. Cullen keeps walking, forcing purpose into his stride.

Commander. He likes the roll of the syllables – blissfully short when held against the double-barreled ranks of the Templar order. With a title like that, Cullen wants to believe himself different. Capable, deserving of the rank. But when the twisted faces in his sleep send him awake and to his knees, clawing for lyrium, it’s hard to have faith in himself. 

Out of sight of the front gate, he finally allows himself to stop. Puts a hand on his sword hilt and looks up to the sky. The Breach simmers there, quietly luminescent and he wonders what those green tendrils would feel like on the skin. He supposes there’s only one person in Thedas who would truly know.

And as if cued by the turn his thoughts have taken, he’s aware that he sees her. The Herald is perched, as she often is, on the pier that juts into the frozen lake. Though she is just a silhouette in the dissipating gloom, he knows that it must be her. No one else would find so much to contemplate in the rocks and the cold and the ice. He wonders why his steps have taken him here. It’s early, even for her, and if it weren’t for the reflection of the moonlight of the lake’s glassy surface, he doubts he would have seen her. 

Cullen turns to trod back the way he came when the wind suddenly picks up, and he hears her voice. She was singing. Elvish, a timbre both low and haunting, and he is curious what the ballad is about. Surely something sad, with a melody so sombre.

He turns back to the Herald, his body reacting before his mind catches up. He has never spoken to her, not really. He has given her instruction in the war room, and made polite inquiries as they passed each other, but unlike his fellow advisors, he didn’t need to corner her with questions or concerns. She was competent, Cassandra assured him, and that was enough.

Or so he said to himself. But as one foot lead the other closer to the pier, he isn’t sure just how true that was. There was something about the Herald that unsettled him – her easy grace and the light in her palm belied the threat she could present. What if she wasn’t _truly_ on their side? 

His skin prickled at the thought – her mark was, after all, implicated in all their problems. What was it that connected her to the Fade? Did her power spring from divine benevolence, or a darker evil they did not yet understand?

“You put yourself at risk, Herald.”

She is up and around so fast he cannot blink; her knives are bared and she’s dropped into a defensive stance.

“Maker’s breath, Commander.” She sighs out the curse as she straightens, recognizing him.

His hands are out, trying to diffuse the tension from her bones.

“I’m sorry.” How stupid of him. She’d lived in the Kirkwall underbelly for years. Kirkwall was the kind of city where you needed quick reflexes – it sharpened instincts like blades, and if you didn’t keep up, you died. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She laughs as her arms lift across her body to sheath her daggers. She is in her armour, he notices, and is pleased with the way it fits her so naturally. He and Cassandra debated over the relative merits of plate versus leather, but the leather is supple, clings to her in a way that allows her to leverage the speed he just witnessed. That speed, Cassandra insisted, was her greatest asset.

“What are you doing up so early?” 

Her question snaps him out of his thoughts, and his mind is suddenly blank. What was he doing, bothering her like this? He certainly can’t tell her what woke him up. But he has to say something – this silence is stretching on too long.

“I could ask the same of you.” He tries to smile and wonders if it succeeds. A question with a question – Leliana’s favourite tactic. _But Maker_ , he thinks, _it’s too early for social graces and games._

She shrugs; the gesture is lithe, like rapids over rocks. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

They stand facing each other, Ellana’s back to the lake, and Cullen suddenly is aware of how different she is. From him and also from the other women in camp. Her frame curves but is delicate, so subtly but decidedly un-human, and her arms are tucked around herself as if to ward away the cold. 

“More importantly,” he continues, feeling the need to fill the silence. “How did you get past the guards? They didn’t report you.” He kicks himself mentally for the last bit. He doesn’t want to outright admit that she was under constant watch.

She laughs again, and it lights up her face, the planes of which were becoming clearer as the beginnings of dawn surround them.

“Commander, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s knowing how not to be seen.” The smile she gives him is cheeky, and he resists the urge to smile back.

“It’s dangerous. What if you were attacked?” He keeps his tone even and meets her emerald eyes.

“My, my, worried for my safety?” Her hands slip from her arms to her hips, but he refuses to rise to the playfulness in her voice. The guards were there for her security, after all. 

“You are an essential asset to the Inquisition, Herald.” He crosses his arms, frustrated that she won’t take him seriously. “We can’t have you abducted in the middle of the night by some fanatical bandits or angry Templars.”

The humour is suddenly gone from her face, and she doesn’t respond immediately. Cullen wonders what he has done, how he has blundered this time. She turns away from him, glances back out over the lake.

“Well, you know where I am now, Commander.” She does not look at him as she settles back into a sitting position and draws a notebook from the fold beneath her vest. He stands awkwardly behind her as she pulls a piece of charcoal out, opens her notebook and continues a sketch that she’d started.

Cullen opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. The rising sun hits them at a steep angle, brings out the warm browns in the Herald’s dark hair. She does not look at him again. 

Unsure what else to do, he turns on his heel and walks back to Haven. He is confused, feels a flush along his neck and wishes he was better at all this business. The Herald so effortlessly weaves in and out of conversation, smiling, teasing and then listening – asking intelligent questions in mission briefings, as she does when they meet again in the afternoon to lay the groundwork for the trip to Val Royeaux.

Cullen decides, as they stand around the war room table and the Herald shifts from foot to foot, considering the map in front of her, that he should speak to her again. Apologize for the morning and explain that he was tired. Or something.

He sighs quietly as Leliana speaks, relaying what information they have on the Orlesian city, and he feels Josephine’s questioning gaze on him. He doesn’t look at the Ambassador, instead tightens his grip on his sword and keeps his eyes trained down on the map. In the back of his head, he is aware of the dull ache, the part of him that’s parched for his elixir. He can slip away, after the meeting, to his room and open the chest. He’ll only have a little bit – it will be just enough to soothe the hunger.

_Stop._ The voice, like iron in his mind, pulls him back from the brink and he forces him to pay attention. But by then the meeting is finishing; he mutters his own assent that they are done, and then makes to follow the Herald as she flits out of the room, light like a feather on the wind.

When he is out the door, he calls after her.

“Herald –” But he is too late; she is pulled away by Solas, and their heads bend together as the taller elf speaks words Cullen cannot hear. Solas worries Cullen at times; though he has been nothing but respectful, the staff on his back and the depth of arcane knowledge the quiet elf possesses puts Cullen on edge. 

“You know, she prefers to be called by her name.” Leliana is next to him, and Cullen is so used to her sudden appearances that he is not even surprised. 

“It would be disrespectful.” 

“She is more disrespected when she is not treated like a person.” The spymaster’s voice is heavy when she responds, and Cullen wonders if she is thinking back to her interrogation of the Herald, the dispute Cullen had interrupted. Looking after the Herald as she follows Solas out of sight, Cullen thinks back to the morning. _An essential asset,_ he had called her. Perhaps that was it. He turns to respond to Leliana, only to find the spymaster gone. Maker, the women was a shadow sometimes.

Cullen sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and heads back to the training field, ready for another round of drills. The Herald trips in and out of his peripheral vision all day, returning from the woods with Solas and more elfroot than she has hands for. Over by the stables with Blackwall, listening to the older man talk. And then she is sparring with Cassandra, not so far from where he runs his troops through drills, and he is able to watch her fight for the first time.

Cassandra is all power, her swings hard and deadly, even behind a practice blade, but they never connect with the Herald. The nimble elf is flipping backwards, rolling forwards – her strategy relies on never being hit to begin with, Cullen realizes. A dangerous game – learning how to take a blow and recover is essential as well, and he hates to think of the Herald crumbling beneath a sword arm like Cassandra’s. 

Lavellan dances into Cassandra’s range, and she’s a sight to behold when she’s on the offensive. A blur of motion and swift surety; one blade connects with Cassandra’s shield, and the warrior grunts, suggesting that there is more power in her strike than an observer might expect. If Cullen’s troops notice that he no longer calls out criticisms and maneuvers, they do not complain. Instead, the soldiers follow his gaze and join the haphazard crowd around Cassandra and the Herald.

“Widen your stance, Lavellan,” Blackwall stands by the sidelines, arms crossed and eyes critical. Cullen is immensely glad for the man’s presence; on his weaker days, Cullen often felt like he, Lysette, and Rylen were the only capable trainers in the yard. Blackwall added a fourth to that list, and had proven more than willing to assist. “When Cassandra finally hits you, you’ll go sprawling on your ass with a stance like that.”

Cullen casts the man a quick warning glance, but Blackwall’s eyes are trained on the fight. Taking such a familiar tone with the Herald – he’s not sure it’s the best precedent to set, here in front of so many townsfolk.

Varric guffaws, down at Blackwall’s side. 

“Yeah, and you’re really pissing off the Seeker, Gemstone. She can’t stand the ones that get away.”

As if on cue, he sees it unfolding. Ellana is spinning, her practice blade slicing just over Cassandra’s head as the taller woman ducks. The warrior’s sword is arching dangerously, and connects with the Herald straight in the ribs. And then the Herald is in the air, the crowd parting for her limp form as it connects soundly with the dirt. 

Cullen is by her side in an instant, hand out to turn her face up and see if she’s still conscious. 

“The Warden is right, Lavellan.” Cassandra is at his shoulder, unapologetic as she studies the Herald. 

“Mrgh.” Lavellan blinks, and then seems to become aware of Cullen’s fingers at her face because she bolts upright and out of his touch.

“Come,” Cassandra offers her an arm, and the elf clasps her wrist. “We will work on your stance.”

And they do, for hours, and much as Cullen wanted to stay and help her train, he has his own responsibilities. 

“Back to your positions, you gawking fools,” He says, ignoring the looks they share at the undeniable irony of his words. “We’ve got time for two more sets before dinner.”

When the Herald and Cassandra finally tramp off the training field, they are both sweat-soaked and slumped, but laughing about something. 

_An unexpected friendship,_ Cullen thinks as he puts the troops through their final paces, and he is momentarily amazed at the Seeker. He saw so much of himself in Cassandra at times that he wondered how they could be so different in how they interacted with the Herald. He didn’t think he’d ever truly seen Cassandra disarmed, but in Lavellan’s company, the notion of a relaxed Cassandra seemed less unattainable.

When he sees the Herald again, it is after dinner. She did not eat with her companions – Blackwall, Varric and Cassandra had sat around the fire, traded stories with the ease of those who’ve seen more battles than they cared to remember. Cullen had thought about joining them, but opted instead to document the day’s accomplishments and compile requisition orders. He sat at a desk in Leliana’s tent when he spotted the Herald by the Chantry doors. She was finally alone.

Again, Cullen found himself reacting without thinking. If only for himself, he wanted to make amends.

“Herald.”

Lavellan looked up at his approach, and her expression remained neutral.

“Commander.” She paused, put a hand on her hip and looked him over. “Can I help you?”

“I…” he faltered. Was unsure again – what did he have to apologize for anyway? “I wanted to thank you.”

She arched an eyebrow. 

“Oh?”

“For locating the iron mine and the logging stand.” Cullen can’t believe that he’s doing this, diverting himself from any meaningful conversation with trite pleasantries.

The Herald shrugged at that, her eyes losing interest. 

“You write the order, I find the goods. An asset like me can manage that, no problem.”

Ah. That word again. Perhaps Leliana was onto something.

“I’m sorry about that,” his hand is on his neck as he looks down at her. “I didn’t mean to be so reductive.”

She shrugs again, and Cullen wonders what he’ll have to do to win back that spirited side of her. Not that he wants to. It’s just that he has seen her use it on everyone, and inconsistency might arouse suspicion from the troops.

“Did you want to see?” He’s floundering now, but he can’t stop himself.

“See what?” She blinks, and he’s struck again at the slightly different features. The eyes that are just a little larger than a human’s. She’s not the first elf he’s seen – there were many at Kinloch Hold and in Kirkwall – but he’d never had cause to acquaint himself with any others.

“The work we’ve done?” The words become a question through his intonation. “In the mines. I think you’ll be quite impressed. We’ll have a stable supply chain for weaponry established shortly. The workers are making excellent progress.”

She laughs then, waving a hand, and Cullen is oddly relieved. 

“Alright, take me to see the mines, Commander.”

As she falls in step beside him, taking quick steps to keep pace with his long strides, Cullen reflects that this was most definitely _not_ what he had intended. A quick apology to make peace and ease the air between them. An apology he hardly felt was necessary – he had spoken truthfully after all, that morning by the lake. But as he reviews the chronicles of their conversations in his head, he wonders what she must think of him.

_We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here._ His first words to her, when she was still a stranger and a potential threat. Cassandra had credited Lavellan with their survival against the demons, but Cullen had doubted it then. She was slight thing in mud-caked armour and grime; her face was ragged from the mark that ebbed away at her, pulsing in time with the Breach. He’d been frustrated, that day, at all they had suffered. So little progress, the Divine dead, and an elf with some unknown magic as the only survivor of the cataclysm. 

But seeing her spar with Cassandra today, he began to understand why the Seeker had so much faith in her abilities. 

“You held your own against Cassandra.” He means the words to be a compliment, but she doesn’t seem to understand that.

“Try not to sound so surprised,” she laughs, a hand reaching up to brush dark hair back from her eyes. Her hair is loose now, down around her shoulders and is longer than he realized. It’s interwoven with thin braids, and as she tucks it behind her ear, he follows her fingers with his eyes, traces the pointed outline of her ears. _So much fuss over so little a difference_ , he thinks to himself.

“I… I wasn’t.” He finds it harder than he should to attend to their conversation. “I was impressed – I have seen little of your combat abilities thus far.”

As Haven disappears behind them, he wonders exactly what he is doing. They are losing daylight, and the setting sun casts a red-orange haze over the snow. The Herald shivers and he wonders that she does not wear more layers.

“My father taught me everything I know about hunting.” Her fingers drop to a pocket in her breeches and emerge with a small wooden token – a crescent moon inlaid with curving script he assumes is elvish. “I could skin a rabbit at four and hunt with a bow at five.” She smiles at him, and he thinks that Varric was right - those eyes _are_ gemstones in disguise.

“I know,” she says when he doesn’t respond right away. “A savage elf child, right?”

How could she have read that on his face?

“Of course not,” and he realizes then that her racial difference must be so much more to her than it is to him. That it went further than the elegant tips of her ears or the almond roundness of her eyes. “Again, I am impressed by your aptitude.”

“You are kind to say so, Commander.” In the way her gaze drifts away from his face and onto the snowy slabs of rock around them, he suspects that she does not believe him. Thinks he is merely being polite. He wants to show her that he sees her for who she is, not merely as a product of her race. But he struggles because he barely knows her, cannot fathom how to convince her of his sincerity. So he falls back on the one thing he does understand.

“I find it hard to believe the Dalish taught you to fight so dirty.” He almost blushes at the sound of the words in his voice, but it was true. She’d kicked out Cassandra’s heels a half dozen times, locked her foot behind the Seeker’s knee, twisted a hand in her hair, elbowed her in the sternum, the ribs, the lower back.

The Herald laughs and his attention is arrested. This is a genuine laugh; her shoulders shake and she puts a hand to her ribs as the laugh subsides into little giggles.

“You sound so _scandalized_ , Commander.” She’s almost tearing up, for Maker’s sake – it’s not like he said anything particularly funny. Not really. But he is glad all the same: he prefers this to the elf that smarts at his comments and turns away quiet. He flounders for something clever to say, but she rescues him by speaking again.

“Every dirty trick I know,” her lips linger on the word ‘dirty’, and he feels the faint flush on his cheeks again. “I learned in Kirkwall.”

The name sends the memories tumbling back and a sense of anguish with them. The fires of the Chantry and the madness in Meredith’s eyes. His own hand, following orders when _he should have known better_. He should have _been_ better.

“Commander?” She can sense the change in him, blinks up at him with concern on her face and he wants to will it away, replace it with that joy he’d brought out of her just moments before.

“I forget that you lived in Kirkwall, for a time.” His words are thoughtful when he speaks again. She is so small next to him. They walk, close together, nearing the entrance to the mine, and he realizes that he could crush her with his hands alone, if he wanted to. 

“I did. I think I did the most important growing in my life in that city.” Her face is blank now, and Cullen wonders whether or not to press for more. Decides not to, because he wouldn’t want to be pressed for more about his own past.

“Our lives likely overlapped in Kirkwall,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully, her eyes forward as they walk on. “It’s funny we never met. Varric too, though I infer from your stellar cameo in _Tales of the Champion_ that you two got on quite well.”

_Oh Maker, she’s read it._

“Knowing Master Tethras as you do now, I suspect you understand how little you can rely on his writing to hold any modicum of truth.” The reality was that Cullen was ashamed of the fictional version of himself: Varric worked his magical bullshit and made Cullen an anti-hero who made the right choice at the end of the day. A staunch Templar, blind in his loyalty until the very moment when his decision mattered most. Redemption came so easily on pen and paper – a single choice exonerating him of all his sins.

“According to Varric, you joined the right side in the end.” Lavellan shrugs. “Shouldn’t that be all that matters?”

No, his mind screams at her naïve simplicity. Every choice matters: every mage who suffered at his hands without cause deserves justice that he cannot give them. But how could he explain that to her, with her wide, unjudging eyes? Would he risk losing this version of her, trusting and respectful? What would she think of him, if she knew the truth?

“Ah,” she saves him from replying, once again. “I like what they’ve done with the place.”

They enter the mine, and Lavellan looks appreciatively around herself, eyeing the wooden scaffolding as she turns slowly about. The shadows of the cave envelope them, and Cullen wishes that he’d brought some flint. He moves his hands to rest on his sword hilt, and he only belatedly realizes he’d left the blade in his room, removed it after the drills. Instead, he crosses his arms and watches the Herald.

“Yes, you found a rather lucrative holding here.” He follows her down the terraced steps, throwing a nervous glance to the setting sun, just visible outside the mouth of the cave. “The men have been working diligently at excavation. Harritt says it’s not the purest vein, but it will serve.”

“The Inquisition is fortunate to have such diligent workers.” She runs her hand along the wall of the cave. Her gloves have no fingers, he notices, and he wonders at the foolishness of such a garment as he watches her tapered fingers on the stone.

“And to have such capable leaders.” He meant the remark as a compliment to her, but realized, too late, that he sounds self-laudatory. 

Lavellan says nothing, simply ventures a few steps further, into a side tunnel where the scaffolding is all new. He follows closely.

“Herald, you’d best mind your step-”

The words are stolen from him at the cracking of the wooden beams, and then they are plummeting, both of them, straight down. Splinters of wood cascade, and Cullen feels briefly weightless. Air and darkness rushes up around them and then –

" _Ouch._ "

She is on top of him, and he can’t see anything. His ankle is twisted fiercely and pain radiates up through his seat and into his torso.

“Herald, are you alright?” His voice is too loud in the press of the darkness. She is slumped against him, and he can’t tell if it is her back or her front. She’s heavier than she looks, he finds himself thinking as he struggles pull air into his chest, overcome the shock.

Suddenly, she is alert again and scrambling backwards – it was her front, he realizes as her arms find his shoulders and push off, her thighs digging into his as she lifts herself to sit back. He winces against the pain, and wishes she would stop fidgeting. 

“What happened?” Her voice is hoarse, a whisper, and he can tell she is trying to put room between them but can’t. 

“We’re at the bottom of a mine shaft.” He wants her to calm down – the immediate danger has passed, and there is no need for panic.

“I can see _that_.” She hisses the words, as if this is somehow his fault, and absurdly, he finds himself making jokes.

“Can you? Those elf eyes really must be something, because I can’t see anything at all.” She shifts, and he lets out a groan of pain. Abruptly, the perturbed tone is gone.

“Are you alright, Commander?” Her voice is concerned, and he wishes he could see her face. Overhead, more than a dozen feet above them, is the entrance to the shaft. But what little daylight remains is dwindling, and Cullen realizes that soon it will be entirely dark.

“It’s just my ankle.” He can feel the sweat on his face as the gravity of their situation settles over him. He can’t stand and, limber though she is, he finds it unlikely she’ll be able to scale the sheer rock walls and get back to Haven for help.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft now, uncertain. “I didn’t realize, and I landed on you, and -”

“Enough.” He is irritated, but he needs to get that incessant worry out of her voice. 

“I should brace your ankle with something,” her fingers in the dark, tentative pressure on his ankle, and he just wants her to calm down. He leans forward, grabs her wrist in one of his hands, pulls her hand away from his ankle, and the gesture is rougher than he intended.

The change in her is instant. She is frozen, and the only sound in the gloom is his own breathing, strained and suddenly abrasive against his ears. She is kneeling, he suspects, seated between his splayed legs in the cramped enclosure of stone. For all they say that elf-eyes glow, he cannot see hers in the dark.

“Release me, Commander.” Her voice is cold. He drops her wrist like it’s hot metal, shifts back to give her space. Ignores the sharp stab of pain that works his way up his ankle every time he moves. Silence stretches, but Cullen doesn’t know how to fix it. He can feel her nervousness like it’s another person in the tight space with them – energy without a place to go.

“We’re going to be here all night, aren’t we?” Her thoughts had taken the same direction as his, obviously. They’d tell no one where they were headed. No one had any reason to miss them in Haven.

“The workers will be here promptly, tomorrow morning.” He tries to sound confident, but his voice sounds desperate, even to his own ears. “They have to reinforce the new scaffolding.”

“That’s hardly necessary, I think.” she says, voice dry, and he is happy that some her spirit is returning.

“Might I point out that it was you who hopped over to take a peek down the mineshaft.” He wants to keep this up, the lightness between them. Prefers it to the inexplicable almost-fear he perceived in her moments earlier.

“ _Me!?_ ” Incredulity, and it is so exaggerated Cullen finds himself smiling, grateful that she cannot see his foolish grin in the dark. “Might I point out that the wood supported me just fine until _you_ lumbered after me in that ridiculous breastplate of yours.”

“If you’re implying my weight is to blame for this all, I’d like lodge a complaint as well: you are much heavier than you look.”

“Commander!” And he can tell it’s a struggle for her not to laugh. “I may be a savage woodland elf, but even I know that it is bad form to comment on a lady’s weight!”

And then she is giggling and he can’t help himself. His laughter joins hers and bubbles up the mineshaft, echoing around them. 

“So you _can_ laugh, Commander.” He feels her shift, suspects she is redistributing her weight. Her knees must be tired, bent like that, he thinks. The side of her thigh brushes against the inside of his calf. “I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t possible.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard similar words. Josephine and Leliana tease him about it constantly, and even as a child, Mia poked fun at his dour ways. 

“Josephine would be so distraught if she could see us now.” The Herald says after a moment of quiet. 

Cullen chuckles at that. Reflects on their situation, and speaks.

“The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste – fell down a hole.”

“Probably bad for morale. _Definitely_ bad for my image.” Lavellan concedes, and then she is standing; he can hear the scrape of her hands against the rocks as she looks for any purchase.

“Her-” he begins and the stops himself, remembers Leliana’s advice. “My lady, I do not think you will find anything to –”

He stops again because she is laughing, a raucous cackle that he wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for the way it filled their tight cranny, reverberating off the walls and filling his ears.

“Did I say something to amuse you?” He keeps his tone dry. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he thinks he can make out her legs – shapely and just a little darker than everything else – in front of him.

“I’ve never,” she breaths in deep, tries to stifle the humour out of herself. “I’m sorry,” she shifts and he swears she’s wiping a tear from her eye. “I’ve never been called a lady before.”

This woman is incomprehensible, he decides.

“You don’t need to be born a noble to act with grace and honour.”

She grows still at his words and he wonders if she is looking at him. Trying, impossibly, to see something in the dark, the way he is trying to do the same.

“You really don’t think the born-in-the-woods, crazy elf business is important, do you?”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

When she says nothing, Cullen knows she is realizing that he is right. He will not carry the matter further.

“Sit down,” He says instead. “And watch my leg. I don’t care how fleet-footed you are – even Andraste’s chosen cannot scale a sheer rock wall with nothing but willpower.”

Gingerly, she does as he instructs and he is surprised to find her such a good listener. So accepting of their circumstances. Her stubbornness is selective, he notes. She sits again, across from him, and tries to stretch out her legs. But her foot jostles his thigh and he can’t help the hiss of pain that escapes his lips. 

“I’m sorry!” She freezes. 

“It’s alright. Here, just turn around.” He goes to touch her shoulder, but remembers her earlier reaction. Instead, he simply tries to keep as still as possible as she moves. She seats herself in front of him, and he can feel the stiffness in her posture. If he leans forward, he can bury his face in her hair. She smells of a floral note he cannot place, undercut by sandalwood, or something similarly delicate. He realizes then, that she must have washed after her match with Cassandra. Lovely – while she smelled of flowers and soap, he was soaked in a day’s sweat, with the scent of stew on his breath. 

“I was recruited into the Inquisition in Kirkwall myself.” He says, suddenly deciding that he cannot let his thoughts continue down the path they’d chosen. He will fill the curiosities in his mind with words instead, the memories that are safe to share. “As you know, I was still in the service of Knight-Commander Meredith when the mages rebelled.”

“The chaos of the rebellion – it’s unfathomable.” She replies and her voice is soft. He wonders if she is worried, nervous here, in the dark, so close to a man she barely knows. Her body language suggests that she is, but her voice, though quiet, is steady. “I was lucky to leave before then.”

Cullen can’t imagine meeting her in Kirkwall. She seems incongruous against his memory of the city, too aloof to be grounded in the squalor and mire of a place like that. But he suspects what side she would’ve chosen, had she been there when mages rose up and anarchy erupted. 

“I witnessed firsthand the devastation.” His words were solemn and, fleetingly, he is back there, watching the death of recruits he’d trained and mages he’d chatted with. “Cassandra, determined as always, sought a solution to the discord. She made the decision to join the Inquisition easy.”

Lavellan laughs, and the noise is so close now. 

“She can be persuasive.”

They sit in silence, for a while, and Cullen reflects that there is something to be said for contemplation, out of doors and in the dark. It is unexpectedly peaceful. But then he notices her shaking; Lavellan is shivering against the chill, and why wouldn’t she? The middle of winter, in a cave, at the bottom of a hole in nothing but well-fitting leather armour.

“Here,” Cullen winces as he shrugs out of his cloak, lifts the fur off his shoulders, and slides the garment off and around his back. 

“I will be fine, Commander.” She’s trying to be insistent, but the attempt is marred by the chattering of her teeth. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he pulls the garment out in front of himself and pauses. “May I?”

He waits, and finally she moves. Is it a nod? Realizing he cannot see her, she speaks. 

“Of course. Thank you.” He slips the cloak around her shoulders, almost laughing at its size on her. The fur collar falls flesh against her neck and cascades over her shoulders, and he wraps the folds of red fabric over her arms, his own crossing over her chest. For a moment, he lets his hands stay where they are, his arms folded across her chest, as he tries to rub warmth into her triceps.

“Are you… alright?” He is relieved when he feels her nod slowly. He thinks he understands her hesitation. He is human, a veritable stranger, and, try though he might, he cannot truthfully insist that their situation isn’t oddly intimate. But, he reasons, they both need to stay warm and to keep up their strength. That was definitely the reason he made his next suggestion:

“Sit back a little, my lady. Just until you are warm again.” 

“Cullen, I…” She’s never used his first name before, and the sound of it in her lilting voice stirs an urge in him to make her feel at ease.

“All will be well.” His voice is steadier than he feels. “We just need to stay warm through the night so that we can resume our duties in the morning, when the workers arrive and find us.” 

She pauses to consider his words, and instead of saying anything, she moves. Scoots towards him a little so that her back rests against his breastplate, her head at his shoulder. Cullen follows the movement with his arms, keeps them hugging her, over the cloak. He wishes he could bring his knees up around them, but he dares not to move the left leg. It feels unexpectedly right, to sit like this – gone are the traces of anxiety that pooled in his stomach, replaced instead by a warm contentment. 

Despite his own ease, he can still feel the tension in her shoulders and her back. Cullen opts to say nothing, gives her time to adjust. He is grateful for the warmth another body provides and hopes that she has also noticed the change. It’s strange, Cullen realizes, to have open eyes and see nothing but blackness. 

“Was it hard?” Her voice is distant. Where had her thoughts taken her? “To leave the Templar order? That’s all you had ever done, right?”

Surprised by the question. Cullen finds himself answering honestly. 

“Kirkwall fell. Innocent people died in the streets. Meredith would have had us stand by and watch, fighting only those battles which suited her purpose and using lyrium like a leash to control us. Surely you can see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

It is easier to say the words like this, into the night, unable to see her face or be seen himself. 

“But surely you saw something noble in the order once?” Lavellan rolls her head back onto his shoulder, tilts her face so she is speaking in his direction. He tries to ignore the sensation of her breath against his chin, his neck, his cheek, and instead focuses on answering her question.

He tells her about his childhood: how being a Templar was all he had aspired to. How dedication had altered the course of his life, taken him from would-be farm boy and threw him into the path of first the Blight and then the mage uprising. 

“I have only read tales of the Fifth Blight.” He can feel her arms shifting, under his, beneath the cloak. “It’s hard to imagine that you were there, living through it.”

For a moment, all Cullen can picture is Altessa’s face, the sweet upturn of her nose, her dimples when she smiled, and the fire that burned, consumed her in the chaos at Kinloch Hold.

“The Blight saw dark times for everyone involved.” His voice is harsher than he intended, but he desperately needs to be thinking of anything else. “Might we move on?”

“Of course,” She does not miss a step, and he thinks that maybe she too understands what it means to have a past you will not share. Demons you do not want to face again. Instead, she volunteers something of herself.

“Though the Dalish were not an order I trained for, leaving them meant walking away from the only life I knew.”

“Was it hard for you?” Cullen sees unexpected parallels in their choices. “The first time, or the second, when they sent you to the Conclave?”

“The first time was harder, but I was with my father still then.” She sighs softly, the noise so close to Cullen’s ear. “I understood my father’s reasons, but all I had known were the woods and the stars overhead. To be taken from that and plunged into a Lowtown hovel with nothing but a bedroll and our wits to keep us going. That was no small change.”

“And you survived through… smuggling?” Discipline and order were the very marrow of Cullen’s being. The notion that this elf, folded easily in his arms, had lived by a completely different code – Cullen knows many who live by crime, but cannot imagine how she slipped from that life and into his. Into the Inquisition’s, he corrects himself.

She’s chuckling again. “You can say it, Commander. I was a criminal. The opposite side of the law from you.” She shifts under his arms and he readjusts his grip, unselfconscious as he pulls her close and seeps up her warmth. “Perhaps it’s a good thing we never met in Kirkwall.”

Privately, he agrees. The man he was in Kirkwall was dominated by clear rights and wrongs. Though he questioned Meredith, his discipline and deference had continued to win out over his better judgement. Lavellan and her sideways smile and steps like silent shadows – the person he was then would have had no understanding of her shades of grey. May not have judged her lightly. It frightens him a little, to think that fate could so easily be altered, that he might have met her then and turned her into the city guard.

“The second time –” Her words are cut off suddenly as green light fills the narrow space, throws them into eerie luminescence. She moves, pulls her hand out from under the cloak, and Cullen watches, fascinated. The mark illuminates her left palm, shining through the leather of her glove and bathing them both in its flickering aura. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. Her eyes – he can see them now – are trained on the mark, and her face shows no trace of alarm. Tension leaves his body as he realizes that this is no sign of an impending attack, of a nearby rift. “It does this, every now and then. Solas thinks it may mean that a rift is opening, somewhere else in Thedas.”

“And what do you think?” He knew she did not believe herself the chosen of Andraste. Did not worship human gods, saw no reason that she would be saved above all others. But when the mark glowed and he felt its tug on his soul – the call of the Fade? Or something else? – it was impossible to deny that some sort of great power was at work.

She turns to meet his eyes, and her face is so close to his Cullen almost flinches back. It was easier to deny their proximity in the dark.

“I think that there is so much we don’t know about what happened at the Conclave.” 

He turns his face away from her imploring eyes. He doesn’t know what she’s searching his expression for, and he doesn’t want to see her disappointment when he does not provide the answers that she needs. Instead, he cautiously drops his right hand from where it grips her arm, bringing it closer to the glowing mark on her palm.

“May I?” His curiosity from earlier – what would it feel like?

She says nothing, lifts her palm to his hand instead, and Cullen gasps sharply. The mark is – it reverberates with a quiet energy that strums itself through his fingers and along his arm. His fingers wrap around the back of her hand as he traces his thumb along the green cleft, wondering at the strangeness of their whole situation.

“Does it hurt?” His voice sounds distant to his own ears.

“Now? No.” She closes smooth fingers around his thumb and slowly pulls her hand out of his. Cullen’s breath catches in his throat at the softness of her skin – her exposed fingers in those stupid gloves are warm, gentle, and Cullen is so glad that he did not wear his gauntlets. “When I connect with a rift… yes.”

“I’m sorry that you have to bear the pain alone, my lady.”

She smiles ruefully, and something in Cullen’s chest aches to see her sad. Then, with a shake of her hand, the light disappears and they are plunged back into darkness.

“That’s better.” And unexpectedly, she nuzzles back against him, and it’s Cullen’s turn to freeze, paralyzed as she settles in and turns the side of her head against his shoulder. “Too cold to have my hands out, waving about.”

“Indeed.” He can commit to only the one word, does not trust his voice to offer up any more. He hopes she cannot hear his rapid-fire heart as it protests against his ribcage, that she does not notice the way his breath comes quick and shallow. Blissfully returned to the darkness of the night, he is forced to admit to himself what he had, for weeks, been studiously trying to disregard. The Herald was attractive – she is supple curves and compact muscle, a deadly spring prepared to uncoil to meet the Inquisition’s every need. Her hair reminds him of the colour of Honnleath soil and her smile, when she uses it, is so infectious that even glum Adan cannot resist her charm. 

Cullen had noticed all these things and more in the early days of their acquaintance, catalogued the superficial details as unimportant. But somehow, he found his thoughts returning there, assessing the sway of her hips as she walked out to the pier by the lake, or the effortless way that she stretched, whole-bodied, arms in the air and then down to the ground as if she could tie herself in knots. An elvish sort of beauty, certainly, different from the buxom chests and ready lips of the Ferelden women he’d known.

“Do Templars take vows, Commander?” He is grateful for the distraction her question provides. “I swear to the Maker to watch all mages – that sort of thing?”

“Hm,” Cullen shifts, twinges at the ache that races up his leg at the action. Wishes he’d taken off his breastplate, because leaning back against the wall in a sheet of hard armour is not the most forgiving. But then, he is also glad for the breastplate because it’s the one thing that’s maintaining distance between him and the Herald. Without it - _Focus on the question, Cullen._

“There is a vigil first, and if you make it through, you swear yourself to a life of service.”

“That’s no small promise.”

And there’s the rub. He continues. “You’re given a philter then. Your first draught of lyrium. The power that comes with it.”

“Does lyrium make you able to control mages? I read that it amplifies the Templar’s strength, makes them resistant to magic.”

“Nothing can safeguard you entirely against magic.” Cullen knows that fact all too well. “But lyrium gives Templars an edge, a resistance and a greater ability to counteract it.” For all the good that’s done him. 

“After your philter, you swear yourself to the Maker, yes. We were expected to give up claims to wealth, fame. The order becomes a Templar’s family.”

“A life of service _and_ sacrifice.” He can’t place Lavellan’s tone, next to his ear. Is she teasing him? Is it genuine interest? “Are Templars expected to give up physical temptations as well?”

Cullen feels the fire on his cheeks before he can even formulate a single thought.

“Why would you –” _That_ question, here, now of all places? But she is still as stone in his arms, obviously unbothered by his discomfort. _Control yourself. You’re not a teenager._ He breathes deep, tries to answer the question truthfully. He clears his throat.

“That’s not expected.” His voice is not cracking. He is impressed with himself. “Templars _can_ marry, though there are rules around it and they have to seek permission from the order. Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it’s… it’s not required.”

He shifts, suddenly painfully aware of how _close_ she is, pressed against his chest, curling into his arms. 

“Did you?” Unapologetic frankness. Why is she doing this to him?

“I –” That was definitely a squeak. “Uhm. No. I did not. I have taken no such vows.”

She laughs. “Good. Celibacy is bad for the soul. Or so the Dalish teach.” She moves again. Her forehead is against his neck, warm skin and silken hair, and Cullen reminds himself to just breathe.

“Thank you for being here, Commander.”

He can’t help it – he barks a laugh at the patent sincerity in her voice. 

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Curious Herald breaking beams and all that.”

“No, I mean, here.” She has twisted now; her torso leans into his, arms balled in front of her to keep the warmth in. So small beneath his cloak. “You didn’t have to be so accommodating.”

“You are the Herald.” He says simply, drawing his arms tighter and pulling his good knee up around them. “Your safety is our highest priority.”

“I’m sorry I was cold towards you this morning.” She sniffs, and he wonders how old she is. Sometimes, she seems so young. Naively well-meaning, as if she hasn’t seen the worst of the world, as he has. “I am the only one who can close the rifts, and you were right to worry for my safety.”

He does not know what to say in the face of her unpretentious emotions. He is not used to it – even in Haven, conversations are laced with double-meaning and secret agendas. He settles for silence.

“I’m going to sleep now, Commander, if that’s alright with you.” 

How does she tug at his feelings so readily? Vacillate him from extreme embarrassment to effortless comfort in the span of sentences. Pose questions that discompose him, and then abandon him to his own thoughts?

“Of course.” His voice is gentle, though his mind is racing.

Within moments, she _is_ asleep. Maker’s breath, is it so easy for her? He knows he cannot let himself sleep: he does not want to alarm her, and he cannot promise that state he would wake in a normal state. It has been such a long day. She rests so still in the circle of his embrace. If it weren’t for her warmth, her skin against his neck and slow in and out of her breath against his collarbones, she wouldn’t seem alive. The cold is palpable now, in the dead of the night, and without his cloak, Cullen feels it against his neck, around his ears, against his back where he presses into the stone. 

But tonight, the cold does not bother him. He adjusts his neck, moves to rest a cheek tentatively against the top of her head, and promises himself he will stay awake. 

He falls asleep. And later, he finally emerges from the wispy tendrils of an unremembered dream, Cullen is aware of two things.

First, he can see – as sleep-caked eyes blearily blink open, he can make out dim outlines in the cave. Light filters down from the hole above their heads and Cullen is amazed that, despite his best intentions, he has slept through the night. Remained asleep too – no nightly visions had clawed at his mind.

Second, she’s still there. His neck aches and his chin rests on her head and Maker has he _drooled_ in her hair? He twists his face to look down at the Herald, and sees closed eyes and long dark lashes. His arms encircle her, but he moves one now to lift a cold hand and push hair out of her face.

“Mm.” 

He freezes at the noise she makes, fingers incriminatingly resting against her high cheekbone. 

Slowly, her eyes blink open. A few things happen all at once then.

Surprise leaps over her expression and she is scrambling back, out of his arms. She hits his leg on the way, and Cullen is reminded painfully of his sprained ankle. He cries out, but at the same time, they hear the sounds of chatter overhead.

The Herald meets his eyes, comprehension returning to her face. 

Then, they both begin to shout, and it isn’t long before workers are peering down the mineshaft at them. The workers are trying to hide their amusement, Cullen knows, as a soldier insists that he will go back to Haven for some rope and Seeker Cassandra.

“You don’t need to get the Seeker!” Lavellan sounds desperate as she shouts up after the man. “Really!” 

But the man is gone. Others stand around the hole, chatting and laughing. Lavellan sighs and meets his eyes again – hers are dark pools in the half light. 

“Well Commander. It’s been fun.” Then she’s standing and stretches as best she can in the cramped confines and Cullen follows her movements with his gaze. When the fur collar of his cloak slips off one of her shoulders, she laughs.

“Right, I had forgotten.” She rolls her shoulders, sinuously like a snake, and eases herself out of the cloak.

“Well, it just fits you so well.” 

“Is that sarcasm, Commander?” she wears a face of faux surprise. “And here I didn’t think you capable. The things you learn about a person, stuck in a hole with them.”

He chuckles and accepts the cloak as she hands it back. Gingerly, he tries to slip an arm into the vest, and is moderately surprised when she bends over and helps his limbs into the armholes. As the fur settles in over his shoulders again, he is engulfed by the scent of her. Distantly, he wonders if he will ever be able to look at the damned thing again and not remember her in it.

“Thank you again, Commander.” The words are warm as she gazes down at him. Before he has a chance to reply, she offers him a hand.

“Here, let’s get you up.” He clasps her wrist and braces himself for the pain. She slips easily into the crook of his arm, gives him something to lean on just as his bad foot gives out. He is impressed by the strength of her – though she bends, she does not break under his weight.

The sound of Cassandra’s voice above has them both groaning, meeting each other’s eyes before dissolving into laughter.

“I don’t understand.” The Nevarran accent and clipped words are unmistakable. “I expect this from the Herald, but Commander Cullen. Really?”

They look up to see the Seeker’s silhouetted head peering down.

“Good morning, Cassandra.” The Herald waves up with her free hand, charm in her voice and a smile on her lips. Looking down at the elf, Cullen finds himself unable to take his eyes from her face.

They will not live this down, he realizes as Cassandra makes a frustrated noise and calls for rope. The men are stifling smiles, and give up a cheer as each of them is levered out of the hole. The Herald responds with her usual grace – bows regally to the assembled crowd and cracks a joke. Cullen tries to look serious, but he finds that even standing straight is exerting. He is grateful Varric isn’t there with his quill and parchment.

No, they will not live this down, he thinks as he watches the Herald recount their mishaps with dramatic, wide gestures and animated words. But Cullen, feeling oddly rested despite the crick in his neck, is less embarrassed than he anticipated. 

They would not live this down, the Herald and him, but he is just fine with that. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

*

_Mia,_

_I’m not dead._

_Sincerely,  
Cullen_

_…._

_I’m joking. And before you get even more mad, it was you who told me to be less serious. So there you go – what do you think?_

_The Inquisition is based in Haven now. We had planned to stay here only for the duration of the Conclave, but, well, I’m sure you’ve heard about that. We do not know what caused the explosion._

_It is the ‘Inquisition’ now, by the way. Seeker Penteghast pulled her ancient book off the shelf and has made us an official organization. Ignore what you hear about our heretical ways. We do good work here – we are helping refugees from the mage-Templar war, and we are working on a plan to seal the Breach. The Chantry cannot provide the leadership that we can. So instead, they point fingers at us and call us all blasphemers._

_Their resentment is likely due to the Herald. She is an elf, originally from a Dalish clan in the Free Marches, and she is the only survivor of the Conclave. Sister Leliana suspected she was involved in the explosion, but she has proven her loyalty. She has a mark on her hand that can close the rifts. I think she is our only hope against this darkness._

_I do not know what true change we will accomplish. Our leadership is often divided on important issues, though our use of the Herald as our frontline emissary does result in decisions being made. She is a capable warrior and is growing into a natural leader. I have high hopes for what she may achieve._

_I have enclosed a copy of Master Tethras’ latest draft. You have no idea what embarrassing lengths I had to go to receive it. And no, I will not tell you what those embarrassments were._

_Consider it my apology for these months of silence. All the best to you and the family._

_Cullen_


	7. Point of View

_“There is an odd synchronicity in the way parallel lives veer to touch one another, change direction, and then come close again and again until they connect and hold for whatever it was that fate intended to happen.”_  


*

“So, let me get this straight.”

Ellana groaned. They’d just left Val Royeaux, heading northward in pursuit of the author of the stupidly cryptic clues they’d found, and Varric was still at it. Nevermind the adamant disdain of Seeker Lucius or the patent disapproval of the Chantry sisters. No – the foreign affairs of the Inquisition were trite afterthoughts when held against the breaking news of the age.

“You spent an _entire night_ crammed together in a hole the size of a nug den.” Varric had sidled up nice and close, his small horse clip-clopping alongside hers. “And _nothing happened_?”

Ellana sighed.

“Creators save me. No.” She does not look at Varric. She answers with as few words as she can. “Cullen was a perfect gentleman.”

“ _Cullen_ , eh?” The dwarf’s grin is nothing short of lascivious. “So there was no – _oh my Cullen, it sure is cold down here_ – and no – _don’t worry Herald, just rest your pretty little head against my ridiculously broad chest._ ”

Ahead, Blackwall snorted in laughter at the rises and dips in Varric's pitch as the dwarf dramatized his sentence. Ellana groaned – admittedly, it was a broad chest, and Varric's hypothetical situation was disconcertingly close to the truth. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. She had no intention of admitting it to anyone.

It had been her first time. Her first time that close to a man after the room with the blue drapes and the face she’d never be able to unsee. And it hadn’t been easy – when Cullen grabbed her wrist, all she could see was that other man’s face, feel his breath on her skin, hear his words like silken poison whispered against her eyelids. She’d wanted to scream and never stop.

But she hadn’t. She had stayed calm, and she was proud of that. She thought of Marethan and the older women’s tranquil ways and urgent words – to really be free, she’d said, Ellana could not continue to let her past define her present. She’d wanted to spill it all before Cullen – explain why she was this way so that he could understand the anxiety that raced like wildfire through the prairie grass of her limbs. But she hadn’t. Maybe Cullen already knew, read it in her journals like the rest of them had. He certainly acted like it, soothing her fears with a hushed rationale and gentle touches, so much like Dennet calming a skittish courser they’d found in the Hinterlands.

Cullen had been patient and did not hold her at fault for their situation. When he’d eased her back against his chest, in the circle of his arms, she’d been shocked. Not at him, but at how simply it all fell back into place, to adopt all the postures of being _with_ someone. Her words had come effortlessly then, spoken into the night with the frankness of two people who knew they’d likely never speak of their present situation again.

That’s what she had expected anyway. Cullen was so quick to blush and duck his head that it was almost too easy, too cruel to tease him. But the day after, she saw none of the embarrassment she’d expected. He was a trifle awkward when she passed him in the training yard, yes, but he’d met and held her gaze with confidence, just before they set it out. 

It hadn’t been what she’d expected. To be honest, it made her a little ill at ease. She was used to controlling the ebb and flow of her relationships, and she didn’t know where she stood with Cullen now. When it came time to leave Haven, she was more than eager to be gone.

Of course, their mission had been nothing but a spiraling catastrophe thus far. Ellana felt restless – how was she, a Dalish elf with zero political clout – expected to salvage something from this mess? Everyone they met had a different bone to pick: the only thing uniting Thedas, as far as the Herald could tell, was the discord that ran rampant between races, social classes, and national borders. 

She sighed and called for a break, nervous energy thrumming through her limbs. When she noticed Solas, perched on a slap of rock some ways from their camp, she decided how she would release her tension. Ellana stood, ignoring whatever drivel Varric was spewing, and made her way over to the other elf.

“I will never understand the compulsion for gossip. Is it a dwarf thing? A human thing?”

She’s seeking empathy with the remark, but Solas gives her a wry smile that disconcerts her. 

“Oh, I don’t think race plays into it at all, da’len.” Solas stands and throws an appraising look her way. 

“The reason Varric is so insistent is because there’s money riding on your answer.”

“There is not.” Her voice is deadpan, her gaze flat. 

Solas nods sagely, as if he were discussing the impact of prolonged exposure to red lyrium on the flora and fauna of the Emrpise du Lion. 

“Yes. I believe the terms depend on whether or not the Commander was able to –”

“Stop.” Creators take them all – all her training in hiding her emotions, and she can still feel the blush that’s up to the tips of her ears. “I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I very much do.” Solas is _smirking_. She didn’t even know that the elf knew how. She is beginning to suspect that his ancient-elf-wisdom charade is just that, a façade, and that maybe she’d pegged him wrong from the start. “The fate of my coin hangs in the balance.”

For a moment, her jaw flexes but words don’t come.

“I thought you were better than this.” But there is a light of mischief in his eyes, and she has to concede that she was wrong. That just about everyone in her life was uncomfortably concerned with her private affairs.

“And to think, I came over here in the hopes of learning something.”

That piques his interest. He arches an eyebrow, and Ellana wonders why she hadn’t noticed how expressive his face could be. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, it is possible for a Dalish elf to recognize the limits of her own knowledge.” The words are more curt than she intends, but she is still smarting from their previous argument. Solas had spent their trip to Val Royeaux cautioning her against the follies of her people. Ellana might not be a prototypical Dalish, but even she was annoyed by his wholesale dismissal of their earnest efforts to preserve the past. 

“And how might I aid in addressing those limits?” Solas does not rise to her barb, does not affect contrition to please her the way a simpler man would. He will not apologize, she realizes. He sees nothing wrong with his own worldview. She did not expect this stubbornness in him.

“I would like to improve how I fight.” She states it plainly because she has felt the need. There were too many close calls between her and death in the Hinterlands. Too many last minute saves by Cassandra’s blade or a bolt from Varric. When they took out the apostate stronghold, she realized just how little experience she had fighting a mage that was hell-bent on killing her. 

“I have watched you fight and do not find you lacking.”

“Watched me fight, eh?” She decides that teasing is in order – she has had enough of being unbalanced for one day. “And did you like what you saw?” A hand slides to her hip as she looks up and meets his icy blue eyes. This flirtatious poise comes back to her quickly, though it was years ago, in Kirkwall, when she’d really used it last.

If Solas notices her affected coyness, he is unperturbed. 

“You train to flick a dagger to its target. The grace with which you move is just a pleasing side-benefit.”

“Oh, so you’re suggesting I’m graceful?”

“No.” He turns to face her full on. “I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.”

_Oh._ So much for her plans to come out on top. 

“Well. Thank you.” She puts her hands to her neck and then her hair, pulling the dark locks up. She unravels a leather cord from her wrist, twists it around her hair to affix it in a messy bun. _You know you’re desperate when you pull out the hair play_. Athenril’s voice, as if she was the expert in seductive methods. But Ellana has a more practical motivation for tying her hair back, even if it’s easy to forget those reasons under the intensity of Solas’ gaze as he watches her movements.

“I wanted to ask you to spar with me, Solas.”

There is surprise in his eyes, and finally she feels like she is making progress.

“I have little experience fighting mages.” She doesn’t know why she has to explain herself to him. The rest of the day, they treat her like a leader. Why does she feel she must justify her every action to him?

Solas nods his understanding.

“So be it.” His hand reaches behind him to his staff, and for a moment, Ellana thinks she sees something predatory in his eyes. Her instincts scream at her to make space, to run, but she squishes them and simply widens her stance. “But I will not go easy on you the way Cassandra does.”

She smiles crookedly at him, feigning a confidence she does not feel.

“I’d expect nothing less.” 

Solas is a hurricane. His staff swivels and spins and it’s all Ellana can do to dodge the bolts of fire and sheer energy that find purchase on her skin and make her mind scream. She cannot believe that she has unleased this on people – dozens of people – without once questioning what it would feel like. 

She cannot begin to get near him, and he knows that. His ego is apparent in the lazy grin that spreads across his face as he catches her straight in the chest and the world momentarily goes black.

But then she is rolling, knives out, back on her feet and _gone_. Athenril had also taught her this - how to bring the shadows around her, how to lose herself in her environment, and she is viciously satisfied to see the confusion that briefly blossoms on Solas’ face.

“You’ll never find her when she pulls that one, Chuckles.” 

Varric from the sidelines, but Ellana is angry now, shadows wrapped around her as moves in quick. Solas ignores the comment. Stands perfect still and closes his eyes.

“So long as you bear that mark on your hand, da’len, you can never hide from me.”

She’s so close, moves in to strike, and then he’s spinning, his staff rising to block her blade. _How had he known_?

But she is muscle and experience and she bears down on him with all her weight, expecting his arm to give. When it doesn’t, she understands that she has misread him. Again. That there is more strength in those arms than she has given him credit for.

So instead she falls back on what Cullen had called _fighting dirty_. She pulls away suddenly and Solas staggers forward at the removal of her resistance. But she is already spinning out as he tries to conjure a spell, and then she is swooping back, in under his staff, shoulder in his stomach and foot strategically behind his.

He goes down and she goes with him, sweating, panting, caging him with her arms and her blade against his neck.

He looks up at her, unmindful as the loose strands of her hair cascade around his face. She wants to say something pithy but the words don’t come. There is something burning in his eyes that she does not recognize, sees whatever that emotion is alongside a glimmer that might be respect.

“Impressive.” The word is barely more than a whisper. She feels it resonate in his chest. Her shoulders heave with the effort of her breathing and she wonders why she is the only one drenched in sweat. “You are an indomitable force, Ellana.”

At the sound of her name in his cloying voice, she is suddenly aware of the closeness of their bodies. Her thighs along his ribcage, her seat on his stomach and the rest of her pressed against him as she keeps her blade firmly in place.

She needs distance, and creates it immediately. She is standing, faces away from him, and can’t understand why everything is suddenly so complicated. Blackwall and Varric are off to the side and maybe, for once, they will recognize that she wants room.

“Cassandra,” she calls because, absurdly, the Seeker is the one the Ellana needs now. Cassandra did not waver or push and play at games and feelings. She did not dither in her convictions, or flounder when fate did not go her way.

“Scout ahead with me?”

Cassandra looks up from the fire she is building. Whatever she sees, or does not see, in the Herald is clearly enough to persuade her. She drops the kindling and makes for their horses.

Ellana gallops and she knows that it is reckless, but she wants to put some distance between her and Solas. And Varric and all his questions. And Blackwall and his frank observations.

“You are troubled, Herald.” Cassandra states the truth plainly, when Ellana finally slows. 

She cannot help it. It is all too much and she cannot hold it in any longer.

“I can’t do this, Cassandra.” She swivels her horse around, and the animal paws the ground anxiously, sensing her disquiet. “The Templars have left for Maker knows where. The Chantry won’t talk to us. I have no experience as a leader and even less fighting mages. Political manoeuvring is impossible because of the blasted shape of my ears. I can’t even _ride a horse_ without falling on my ass.”

It was all unravelling: her sense of purpose, her satisfaction when they’d located a missing scout, recruited an agent, established a supply chain to get food to the Crossroads.

“It’s nothing but a bloody accident that put this damned mark on my hand.” She gestures, waywardly, and her left palm glows green.

Cassandra’s eyebrows rise steadily with each proclamation. Too late, Ellana realizes that she crossed a line with her last statement because the one construct that Cassandra clings to is her religion.

“Herald.” The woman’s voice is blessedly firm, despite the surprise on her face. “Much pressure rests on your shoulders.”

Ellana laughs, a harsh sound. The woman has a capacity for understatement.

“You know everything there is to know about me, Cassandra.” Her green eyes lock onto Cassandra’s brown ones. “You know I’m nothing more than an elf who didn’t belong, a criminal and a fool who trusted all the wrong people.”

Ellana looks down now, and she is appalled when she feels the makings of tears well up in her eyes. She looks down at her palm, at where it rests against the saddle, assesses the pulsing glow that bleeds through her gloves and feels warm on her face. 

“Why am I the one who has this?”

Her voice is small now, breaking over the words.

“Ellana.” Her name in Cassandra’s deep voice, though the elf does not look up at the sound of it. “I know you are uncertain what to believe. I know you do not share my conviction that Andraste herself has saved you.” The woman nudges her horse closer, reaches out a steady hand and rests it on Ellana’s wrist.

“But I know also what I have seen.” Ellana looks up now, into the taller woman’s eyes, embarrassed as she has to blink back unshed tears. 

“You are annoying.”

The words bring an unexpected laugh out of Ellana’s throat.

“And charming. And all too aware of it.” Cassandra’s mouth forms a dry smirk. “You make others at ease, and inspire dedication where ever you go. That is no easy feat.”

“And what’s more,” The Seeker straightens now, and she looks almost proud of Ellana. “You have an honest desire to do good. You recognize your faults and seek to improve them, so that you might better be able to achieve that goal.”

“I do not think there is more we can ask for in a leader.”

Ellana again finds herself speechless. She feels almost disingenuous because, really, she just doesn’t want to die, just wants to know what the mark is so she can get rid of it. 

Cassandra looks away quickly, and is it Ellana’s imagination or is she blushing?

“Thank you. I -”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence because suddenly there is a growl and their horses are rearing. Dracolisks, three of them, are in the grove and Ellana is already out of her saddle and flat on her back in the mud.

_Move._ Her brain screams and she is rolling up, on her feet, and then leaping through the air. She lands on the dragonling’s back, her knives at work. Cassandra, who managed to maintain her seat, is slicing downward.

Ellana dispenses with one of the creatures and swerves onto the next when a movement catches her eye.

“Cassandra, move!” 

But then the Seeker is on the ground too – the dracolisk had leapt from a stone and made solid contact with her side. It’s on top of her now, and Ellana surges forward, needs to get her friend out from under the snapping jaws. 

Her body slams into the creature and it barely shifts. But she has its attention now, and its beady eyes swivel up from Cassandra to her.

In the moment of distraction, Cassandra is able to free her sword and slam it up through the creature’s ribcage. Satisfied, Ellana whirls and whips her dagger. She watches it lodge itself in the last monster’s eye, sinking deep into its brain and sending it collapsing in a stuttering heap.

For a moment, the clearing is filled only with the sounds of their ragged breathing.

Then:

“You _body slammed_ a baby dragon.”

She looks over her shoulder and Cassandra is a mess, covered in blood and slime, her usual sword arm dangling limply at her side.

Ellana shrugged.

“I improvised.” She saunters over and pulls her blade from the dead dracolisk’s eye socket. She wipes the blade down on some grass. When she looks up again, Cassandra is still staring.

“What?” She shrugs. “It was going to eat your face!”

Ellana decides then that she must’ve broken the Seeker. Because right then, Cassandra’s face lights up and she is laughing, practically cackling, and the elf can’t help but join in. When they return to the camp, they are still chuckling in the after effects of their mirth. They are covered in gore and blood and earn stares and alarmed exclamations from Blackwall. But in that moment, Ellana feels more like a leader and a friend than she has ever felt before.

It is a nice feeling, she decides.

_Commander,_

_Cassandra took quite a blow to the arm. We were scouting ahead and were surprised by a pack of dracolisks. Apparently, part of Cassandra’s job description entails regaling you with tales of our delightfully dull adventures. As the one responsible for placing her in harm’s way, I’m attempting to compensate by taking on her duties. So here goes_.

_You already know about Val Royeaux, so I will waste few words on our dismal efforts there. The positive takeaways are this:_

_We have two new recruits. One, First Enchanter Vivienne, Josephine will definitely approve of. She is all pomp and class and insists on calling me ‘my dear’. Is that better or worse than ‘my lady’, I wonder? I also suspect she can freeze the blood in your veins with a single glance, so watch out._

_The other…. Well. She brings considerable assets to the team. That, and about eighteen pairs of men’s breeches. We’ll have a use for those, won’t we?_

_The final boon that came of Val Royeaux is an invitation from former Grand Enchanter Fiona. I do not know what to make of her entreaty, and I suspect we will receive no answers until we travel to Redcliffe._

_I will seek your advice on this matter, of course, as well as Leliana’s and Josephine’s. But I believe we should go. Unlike Seeker Lucius, the Enchanter openly sought a parlay. I do not think we are so overwhelmed with offers of alliance and negotiation that we can dismiss this one._

_I promise this will all make sense when we return. We’re all still alive and kicking. Looking forward to being back._

_Ellana_

*

Mud, mud, mud. 

Playing with the big hat wasn’t all that different from running with the Jennys in Denerim, Sera was starting to think. Nothing but rain, mud, and gunk up the arse, shoot a few mages, stab a bear or two and call it a day.

And the stick with the glowing hand that everyone talked about? Well, they called Sera crazy, but the Herald thingy put them all to shame at moments like this.

The other elf, so-called chosen child of Andraste herself, was standing on a cliff, face turned up to the sky, laughing her ass off. And for what? To get a mouth full of rain water? Sera’s tunic stuck in all the wrong places, beardy the warden looked like a dirty mop and the hoity-toity enchanter’s perfect mascara was running. 

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been in rain like this!” The Herald finally turned to face them, all smiles and sunshine. The weather must’ve approved because lightning flashed and thunder rolled as she finished her words.

“Quite lovely, my dear, but I believe we have a rendezvous scheduled?” 

_My dear, my child_ – it was always something small and nothing with this one, the statuesque mage, and Sera didn’t approve. She’d seen Viviennes before – cold and capable, crushing you when they didn’t need you anymore. It made her nervous to be so close to the enchanter, especially when her staff was fizzling and sending icy sparks. 

The Herald’s hair was plastered across her forehead, a braid sticking out at an odd angle. She didn’t look like she’d even heard Vivienne’s words.

“You daft or something, tree-hugger?” Sera was annoyed; she hadn’t signed up to traipse around the Storm Coast while the Herald ran after ever promising blank and sparkly rock they approached. “Too much time prancing around in the wild and now you’re all bushed on us?”

“Yes, Sera, because all us Dalish do is take off our clothes and run naked through the woods until we lose our minds.” The Herald scowled – she was cuter when she frowned like that, Sera decided. 

“Pretty picture.” Sera grinned. “Thanks, nutter. I’ll save it for later.”

Blackwall cleared his throat.

“I know you ladies are busy, but I think that’s the Chargers over there.” 

His voice suited his face, Sera decided. The beard would be stupid if it wasn’t for that voice. Sera didn’t know how she felt about wardens. The last warden anyone talked about hadn’t done shit for Sera in Denerim. But this one seemed a good enough sort. For now anyway. Most people were until they got too big for their britches. 

“Let’s move out.” The Herald pulled away, heading for the valley Blackwall identified, all the while acting like she wasn’t the reason they were just standing around, getting wetter and more miserable with every moment.

There was fighting in the valley, lights and colour of crazy magic shit at work, and one of those giant bull qunari, waving his axe around like it was a leafy frond and the Vint’s around them were in desperate need of fanning.

Sera smiled, knocked an arrow and let it fly. 

“Sera!” Ellana glanced back at her, annoyance on her face

“Oh, boo hoo, didn’t wait for the big hat to tell me to wipe my arse?” Sera held the Herald’s eyes and smirked as she launched another arrow. Smirked wider when she heard the strangled cry of the tip hitting its target.

“You want to stick around, you have to follow orders.” Ellana was facing her full on now, back to the skirmish on the beach. Blackwall and Vivienne stood, poised to go but waiting on her word.

“Tch.” Sera walked by her and hopped up onto a rock, loading another arrow with practiced ease. Ellana must’ve released her other lapdogs because soon they were all elbows and knees, blades and staves in amongst the ragtag bunch of mercenaries and Tevinter soldiers.

_Follow orders._ Sera’s arm swivelled easily – load, aim, release, load, aim release. _What’s the need for that?_ She did what had to be done. They were going to fight the Vints, weren’t they? They were here to schmooze with the big qunari, so why waste time when they could just get down to business?

When all the northerners were dead, Sera set to work rifling pockets. She ignored the glare from one of the pointy eared mercs – she’d killed this one after all. You shoot ‘em, you loot ‘em. Simple rules.

Distantly, Sera was aware of the Herald and the qunari with the rumbly voice. Terms and spies, gold and secrets. Everyone had so many secrets, and the Herald was always questions this, suspicious nudges that. Why did it matter where she’d learned to use a bow, or what miserable den of muck she was born in? Why did the Herald need so many answers?

But as the Herald pressed the qunari for details about who he was, what Ben-hassawhatever meant, Sera realized that the elf with the dark eyes and long hair wasn’t so different from everyone else. That the past, the who-where-whats meant more to her than doing good right now. _We’re both elves_ , the Herald had said. We got the same clacky bones and big eyes, so we must be friends, right? Such a small mind. 

Sera was suddenly annoyed, wanted off the stupid beach, out of the Maker-blasted rain. The Inquisition was turning out to be just like everywhere else, just with a slightly crazier queen at the top of the pyramid. 

That didn’t stop her from having a swig of the Chargers brew though, or from mocking Vivienne when she wouldn’t put her golden little tush on the sandy beach. But tonight, Sera decided, was the last night. Back to Haven, get her stuff and then she was gone. She didn’t want to follow some twat who needed to pry for all the answers and let the shape of her ears be her reason for everything.

They made camp with the Chargers on the beach that night, and Sera was just starting to enjoy herself. These folks were real enough, mixed bunch with bad hair and jumbled accents. But then the Herald was at her shoulder, more questions in her damnably green eyes.

“Sera, will you hunt with me? We could do with some fresh meat.”

Sera frowned. Since when was it her job?

“You're a better shot than me.” The Herald grinned, put a hand on her hip and damn it all if she didn’t know exactly how charming she was.

“Urgh,” Sera stood with a frustrated noise. “Fine, fine. But I'm not waiting on no orders to shoot a damn rabbit.”

Ellana smiled broadly, slipped a bow over her shoulder. Had she always had one of those? It was a long-bow, Sera noticed. Needed muscle to bend one of those.

At least the rain had stopped. They were up the hill now, away from the hubbub of their combined site. 

“What do you think of Bull?” Ellana slunk a few paces ahead, trying to keep in the shadow of a rock so that she wouldn’t scare off the ram in the distance.

“Again with your people.” Sera slowly drew an arrow out of her quiver. Ellana was quiet on her feet, she’d give her that, but the Herald had to keep talking and talking, was going to scare the animals off with her words alone. “Why you spend so much time worrying what everyone else is thinking?”

In front of her, the elf shrugs. The movement is lithe, and Sera, for a moment, is distracted at the grace of it. Nonchalance never looked so elegant. Guess that was one thing the woodland elves did easy – liquid movements and fluid poise. Ellana was caked in grime, her hair haphazardly twisted back from her face, but she still managed an air of class. Her tone, when she answered Sera, was frank.

“I care about what my companions think.”

Hm. Sera hadn’t thought of it that way. Wasn’t sure she bought it. The truth more likely was that the Herald was watching them all like a hawk, like that Leliana with her icy eyes, jotting down every movement and twitch. The Herald wanted to analyze their every emotion so she could decide just how far to trust them. That _must_ be the reason for the questions.

Then, the dark-haired elf was unfolding, buttery elegance as she swiveled, stood, nocked an arrow and shot.

Sera laughed as the other elf’s arrow skittered off a rock a foot to the left of the ram. The animal bolted and the Herald swore up a storm.

“You _are_ a crappy shot.” The laughter bubbled out of Sera. “Who’d have thought! You can zap holes in the world with your spooky green hand, but you can’t catch a bite for dinner.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this!” The flush of red on the Herald’s cheeks sent Sera cackling further. “Since the Breach, it’s been all – oh, stand in this room and talk about serious things, lovely, now to go to this city and talk about more serious things. When am I supposed to find the time to get out and hunt?!”

Sera cocked her head. She hadn’t expected that confession.

“Your pack of fluffy bird advisors don’t let you have time to play?” Sera couldn’t believe it. Why would _she_ let anyone tell her what to do? Sera might not be sold on the whole Making the World a Better Place story the Herald spun, but even she could see that people looked up to Ellana. The townsfolk in Haven said she worked miracles, single-handedly secured supply chains, fed the hungry, healed the sick, killed the demons. Her companions too – they waited on her to even wipe their own arses. Even grumpy Cassandra got more fluffy in the Herald’s company.

Ellana shrugs and she looks almost sheepish. She slings the bow onto her back and suddenly is fidgety, like her hands don’t know what they should be doing. 

“There… is a lot that needs doing.” She flexes the fingers of her left hand and the mark starts to glow. Sera takes a step back – she doesn’t like that thing at all. “And not a lot of people are as uniquely qualified as I am.”

“Yeah, but you’re the Big Hat now.” She pushes her anxiety aside, steps into the light cast from the Herald’s hand, and gives her a shove on the shoulder. “You _make the rules_.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be taking the power, running wild with it and crushing them all beneath her little feet. You weren’t supposed to have to explain this stuff to people at the top. They were just supposed to _do it_ , irresponsible like. 

“You need time to disappear in the woods and get in touch with your inner tree-loving self?” Sera shrugs. “You do that. You want to wear your smalls on the outside? You do that too. You do whatever weird shit you want to do. They just got to wait for you at the end of the tunnel.”

Ellana laughs, puts a hand in her hair, rubs the back of her head. She looks away, and Sera follows her gaze. The sun’s setting over the ocean, and when it’s not raining and her clothes are finally starting to dry, Sera admits it’s a little bit pretty. Scenic in a way that Denerim never was. 

“You know, Sera, I’m not as elfy-elf as you make me out to be.”

“You know, your Heraldishness, I seen you hanging out in trees singing your creepy elvish songs.” She spreads her hands. “I think you’re more elfy-elf than you want to admit.”

That gives the Herald pause. 

“Between you and Solas, I don’t know what to think. How do you be an elf anymore?” Ellana laughs. “I guess we’re all just fucked up in our own ways. Maybe that’s what it means to be an elf in Thedas in the here and now.”

She turns then and is moving. Sera’s happy to drop the subject. 

“Come on. You’re taking the next shot.”

When she takes that shot, Sera doesn’t miss. Archery was the one thing that came easy; she’s never known what it’s like to aim and fail. 

Ellana throws the carcass of the animal over her shoulders, and they’re heading back to the camp. As she trails after the Herald, Sera feels her convictions crumbling a little. Her flight instincts have dampened. She’s curious, admittedly – one on one, when she’s put her questions away, the Herald isn’t so bad after all. Could maybe use someone like Sera to keep Ellana standing up for herself. To make sure the unexpected humility and uncertainty stayed in place before the Maker-chosen complex got to her head. 

She realizes that soon they’ll be back with the camp, and she might not get another moment alone with Ellana for some time. She decides it’s her turn for a question.

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Well, we’ve got to eat _something_ , don’t we?” Ellana’s sweating under the weight of the ram on her back. Her voice is a little strained. Sera likes that she’s the one carrying it – that the differences between them didn’t turn Sera into a servant. The fact that they’re hunting at all says something about the Herald – it’s a job she could’ve delegated, but she chose to do it herself. Chose to bring Sera, maybe for a reason of her own. Whatever that reason might be, Sera decides she doesn’t mind.

“Not that, stupid. Any of this. Close the rifts, listen to the advisor twats, save the world?” The answer is important, Sera suddenly realizes. Really important.

Ellana snorts. It’s an unladylike noise, and it makes Sera giggle. When she’s got ram’s blood on her arms and sweat on her forehead, she seems a little more like one of the rest of them.

“Sera, I’ve got a blazing, pain-in-the-ass hole in my hand that can rip reality open and bring stuff out of the Fade.”

Sera’s blood runs cold at the thought. It was easy to forget about the mark when it wasn’t doing its glowy shit.

“I need to know why.” Ellana isn’t looking at her now. The campsite is just coming into view over the hill. “I want it gone.”

“And all the save the world business?” Sera understands the self-interested motivations, though she’s surprised the elf is so upfront about it. Sera;d want to know, if it was her hand on fire. But is the Herald admitting that it’s all an act – that the rest is just posturing? 

Ellana nods, and lets her eyes rest on Sera’s. 

“That too.” She shrugs, shifts the ram carcass higher on her shoulders. As the Chargers catch sight of the elves with their game, a rallying cheer goes up. “That matters too.”

She stops, feeling, evidently, that the words were important enough that they needed to be said. That they should finish their conversation before they reach the others.

“I can make a difference with this mark.” She tosses her head, flicking hair out of her eyes. “I couldn’t do that with my Clan. I couldn’t’ do that in Kirkwall, stealing from people. I couldn’t do that in the woods, wandering about.”

“It feels good to make a difference, Sera.” She smiles, and Sera smiles back because finally, she feels like she’s seeing the real Herald. “People are safer and happier because of what I can do. Because of what you help me do. What they all help me do.” She nods towards the camp.

“For now, that’s enough to keep me going.”

_It’s good enough for me too_ , Sera thinks. And it is. But she doesn’t say it, makes some non-commital scoffing sound as she follows Ellana to the camp. 

Yes, the bleeding optimism makes her want to vomit. But the way the words were said, the confidence and clarity – Sera likes that in the Herald. Likes it, because she can tell this is only the beginning. That things will get so much bigger before Ellana has the answers that she wants. Her capacity to be both selfish and selfless – Sera can understand that. And in a world where she could suddenly understand so little, Sera is willing to cling to whatever small shreds of sense remain. 

_Maybe a few more nights then_ , she decides, as she follows the Herald back into the camp. _A few more nights and then we’ll see_.

*

“If we weren’t in a building made of the driest wood in all of Thedas, I would burn this right now.” 

“Vivienne!” The Herald is laughing, grasps at the clothes, but the taller woman tilts her body and lifts her arms, holding the outfit out of reach. 

“Really, I don’t understand how Lady Montilyet could let this stand.” The beige is horrendous. The outfit looks like pajamas. Even dressed as she is, in her dark armour with lockpicks brazenly strapped against her hip, the Herald makes a more impressive figure.

“It doesn’t matter Vivienne – the clothes are warm.”

“That sort of foolishness is what dooms us all, my dear.” The Herald was young, Vivienne reminded herself. From what she learned, the girl had lived only in slums and forests. She couldn’t be expected to understand. So much had to be taught.

“I have composed a requisition order for new outfits. You will wear only your armour and simple tunics and breeches until they arrive.”

“When you said you had something important to discuss with me, I was foolish enough to assume there was some great political matter at stake.” The Herald desisted in her attempts to reclaim the atrocious outfit. Instead, she settled back on her heels, and put her hand on her hips. Another impish posture to cure her of, Vivienne noted. If power was to accrue to the Inquisition, it needed a leader who warranted respect. Consistent, unquestioning deference.

“Indeed, Herald, this is of great political importance.” Vivienne sighed. How often did this woodland child need to be told? “What you wear, how you carry yourself, the gravitas of your air – these elements are essential to bolster your reputation as a capable and astute leader.”

Lavellan’s expression was blank. She didn’t approve, Vivienne sensed, but tried to keep the disapproval from her lips, her eyes. _She is good_ , the enchanter thought. _A life of petty crime breeds a few positive traits, I suppose_. But Lavellan was unpracticed in _true_ environments of intrigue; her neutral mask would keep little from Orlesian nobles, skilled in the Game.  
“Does a little humanity not serve my image well also?” 

Vivienne wonders if she uses ‘humanity’ in the general sense, or if she hints at the racial subtext that undergirds many of their conversations. The Herald is smart, if naïve – the latter is probably true. And indeed, the decidedly human clothes were a step up from elvish patterns and earthy colours – Vivienne had ordered none of those for the Herald. No, the new outfits would not connect her to her elvish heritage. But the beige outfit with its tapered fit did little to hide Lavellan’s decidedly elven figure. She needed less emphasis of her long limbs and more of her pretty face – mercifully free of those exotic tattoos – more of the curves she would sometimes flaunt.

“You will dress according to your station.” The enchanter’s words are final; she does not wish to expend energy on further circular argument. “Your speeches and actions can make connections to the people; your appearance need not revel in lowly roots.”

“Excuse me for being born what I am, First Enchanter.” 

“Do not get prickly with me, my dear.” She is amused at the Herald’s sensitivity. Try as the elf might, she cannot affect usual aloofness in the face of Vivienne’s direct nature. “I act with the best interests of the Inquisition at heart.”

“So you keep saying.” Lavellan sighs. Her shoulders fall with the action, and again Vivienne wonders at her youth. So much power, wasted on this little frame, this girl from the woods. Lavellan could be _so much more_ if she would simply strive for it. There was no reason she hadn’t demanded the title of Inquisitor; Josephine, Cullen and Leliana were in no position to resist.

“You will have your new attire by the time we depart for Redcliffe.”

Ellana laughs, a hard sound that echoes in the open space of the Chantry foyer. People bustle to and fro around the pair - soldiers on their way to training, Chantry sisters, heads bowed in devotion. Not for the first time, Vivienne reflects on what a ragtag crew they are.

“I’m not sure what you have in mind, First Enchanter, but I plan on wearing my armour to Redcliffe. You’ll excuse me if I have little faith in the former Grand Enchanter.”

“Fiona was a wise woman once.” Vivienne means the words; until that foolishness in with the Andoral’s Reach, the Grand Enchanter had proven sensible. 

“Does she lose your respect for daring to aspire beyond her station?” The Herald’s tone borders on accusatory. This would not prove their first argument about the role of mages in Thedas. Vivienne signs, inwardly. She does not want to revisit the topic, but neither will she let the Herald parade her unexperienced views around without considering the pragmatic counterarguments. 

“She lost my respect for destabilizing an already dangerous situation. She lost my respect when she doomed mages and Templars alike to senseless deaths, yes.” The events at Kirkwall, the vote at Andoral’s Reach, and the rebellion – all such callous, useless squandering of precious resources.

“I saw the conditions of the mages in Kirkwall, Vivienne.” The Herald will not back down on this point. Her gemstone eyes are hot with the passion she feels, and the elf is making no attempt to hide the emotions. Vivienne notes the decision, wonders why the Herald will suddenly let her see her anger. _She could not possibly be trying to intimidate me – surely, she is not so foolish._

“It was an untenable situation.” The elf’s voice is low. Is she trying to be diplomatic, to speak like Vivienne would?

The enchanter laughs.

“Fiona _made_ it untenable when she sewed dissent in the ranks. Those mages would have stayed in the Circle where they were safe -”

“Where they were _tortured_!” Lavellan’s voice breaks with emotion over the word. “Where they were the unjust victims of hypervigilance and fearmongering.”

“They are _dying_ because of the Grand Enchanter, my dear.” Vivienne is annoyed now and lets the emotion show in her words. “What have you to say of that? The Circle would have kept them alive.”

“Better that they died in the pursuit of freedom than they lived a life of paranoia, flinching from every shadow and every pair of Templar eyes that landed on them.”

Because the stars have aligned in her favour, Cullen is strolling by them, feigning disinterest but unable to avoid eavesdropping on their raised voices. At the Herald’s last words, he flinches, and Vivienne knows how she will put this irritating child to rest.

“Commander Cullen,” She calls, and revels as Lavellan winces. She hadn’t known the Commander was behind her. “Join us, please. As a firsthand witness to the events at Kirkwall, perhaps you can help us settle this matter.”

Cullen shuffles over, his discomfort clear in the tension in his shoulders. Vivienne knows he will resist any overt manipulation on her part: the Commander's disdain for nobility and politicking was another setback for the Inquisition. No, with Cullen she’d need an overt and honest tactic.

“Vivienne, you don’t need to pull other people into our squabbles.” The Herald looks bashful now, unsure of herself and Vivienne wonders if it is general social embarrassment or if the Commander’s approval is particularly important to her. Either way, the enchanter feels the conversation tilting in her favour.

“Are your convictions so lax, my dear, that you would voice them to me in private but shirk at sharing them with the larger world?” Vivienne’s tone is arch, and she chalks up another mental point when the Herald starts to reply and then stops herself – clearly, their situation is fluttering the elf.

“First Enchanter.” Cullen’s arms are crossed, his patience thinning. “I have obligations to att-"

“Tell me, Commander. When the mages rebelled in Kirkwall, how many of them did you kill?”

Cullen’s jaw flexes and for a moment Vivienne sees anger simmering in amber eyes. 

“Cullen, I'm sorry, you don't have to be here.” The Herald has twisted to face the former Templar. Vivienne is happy at the distress on her face; Lavellan needs to learn to hold fast to her principles and beliefs, to never show weakness.

“I did what was necessary, Enchanter. The mages posed a threat to the city.” Cullen doesn’t meet Ellana’s eyes when he speaks. Instead, his tone is firm and his gaze level with the enchanter’s. 

“The _mages_ posed a threat?” Ellana’s expression transforms from sheepish concern to indignation. “Knight Commander Meredith was abusing _red lyrium_ , Cullen. Who was the bigger threat to the safety of Kirkwall’s citizens?”

“The Knight Commander made mistakes, yes.” Cullen faces the Herald now, and his expression is carefully controlled. “But if the mages had adhered to the system in place –”

“A system that repeatedly punished them without grounds!” The Herald cannot keep her voice steady, and the rising volume is attracting attention. The scurrying in the Chantry gloom has stilled, and Vivienne knows that whispered reiterations of their conversation will soon run rampant through Haven. Gossip was the currency of those without means, and Haven’t refugees had fewer means than most. 

“A system that can work, if enforced fairly,” Cullen raises his voice to speak sternly over the Herald’s. Emotions flutter over the elf's face – surprise, uncertainty, frustration. 

“My dear, unlike the good Commander, you were not _in_ Kirkwall when the uprising happened. You cannot let what you read in Varric’s books inform your opinions.” It is a reprimand grounded in evidence - Vivienne has noticed that the Herald reads often and widely. More than once, she’s seen the elf under a tree, a book in hand, oblivious to her surroundings. But book learning was no rival to lived experience, and it was important that the Herald learned that.

The Herald’s eyes are fuming as she looks from Vivienne to Cullen and back again. Abruptly, she spins on her heel and walks away, roughly shouldering her way through the Chantry door.  
Vivienne sighs and turns to the Commander. Cullen was looking after the Herald, a mixed expression on his face. 

“Well, Commander, I think we taught her –”

He rounds on her and his words are heated when he speaks.

“I know that in Orlais, you were accustomed to the adoration of simpering nobles and self-absorbed fools who curried power.” Cullen is tall – taller even than  
Vivienne – and she is unused to the sensation of looking up into someone’s eyes. “But Haven is _my_ camp, First Enchanter. And in my camp, I will not be used as a pawn against the Herald to appease your vanity.”

He turns, trying to affect the same dramatic exit the Herald had performed. She will not let him score the last point, however. 

“You know I had the right of the argument Commander.” Her hands are clasped behind her back and she is satisfied when he freezes in his retreat. He does not turn to look at her, but he is listening.

“You know she needs to learn. She cannot cling to her inexperienced sensibilities when reality so starkly contradicts her.”

Cullen does turn then, ever so slightly. Looks over his shoulder, golden eyes bright in the flickering torch light. 

“Her moral compass is what inspires hope in our followers. I would not take that away.”

_Then why did you agree with me so readily?_ Vivienne wonders as he completes his retreat, disappearing through the double-doors into the cold. The Commander, it seemed, had his own moral compass and principles that he could not compromise, even for the sake of his precious Herald. Clearly, what had happened in Kirkwall changed him.

Vivienne looks down at the crumbled beige outfit. She lifts the hideous thing and folds it gently, setting it to rest on her desk. 

There was still, she reflected, _so_ much work to be done.


	8. Courage

Chapter 6: Courage

 _“Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals come easily.”_  
*

_This muck is never going to come out._

Dorian sighed. It was future-muck, and, by extension, should be of no small interest. Researchers and natural philosophers should flock to his soggy robe, bottle up the goop and dirt that caked the hemline where he’d trounced about in what was – he was loathe to admit- probably sewage water. 

The technicalities of the jaunt through time he’d taken with Ellana perplexed him even still, days after, in the safety of a dilapidated hut in the sad excuse of a village the Inquisition deemed their home. Their path seemed linear – a collection of lived experiences he and the Herald had experienced in sequential order. The future for everyone else though – for that oversized Qunari with the rippling muscles, for the sassy dwarf and the disgruntled Seeker – that future had never happened and lingered nowhere in their minds.

But for the Herald and himself, the same could not be said. He saw the claws of the bleak future rippling through the lithe elf they called the Herald. Saw it in the distance she put between herself and her comrades, and in the silence that pervaded in their conversations. He had seen them too, emaciated and aglow with a force of terrible, potent power, but they had been strangers then. Were still strangers now. 

He had first met their spymaster when she, without pause, sliced his dear friend’s throat open, sent Felix tottering, lifeless to the ground as if he were nothing but an automaton, human form without human feeling. He had watched the human with her red hair and cold justice embrace death, and then, miraculously, found himself shaking her warm, living hand only days later. 

So the memories remained for the Herald and him. The remembrances that haunt the Herald’s eyes and the future muck of the dungeons beneath Redcliffe that stained his robes – somehow, they had moved through time and space and retained everything that the others had lost.

Dorian knew he ought to be more intrigued. That the events in Redcliffe were, without a doubt, the single most fucked-up thing that ever happened to him. The trip through time bore all the makings of a most excellent scientific paper. But it was hard to maintain the objective distance of a scholar when allied with the parties involved, when seated in the mess hall across the dwarf who remembered nothing, when the only other witness to the insanity had zero inclination to discuss what had transpired.

He had tried, on the journey back to Haven, to engage the Herald on the topic. He hadn’t wanted to, but he knew he was the only person in all of Thedas who could even approximate empathy at the situation. Dorian wasn’t much for empathy, and his was a paltry, dishonest fiction compared to the true loss the Herald had experienced. But even he was not immune to the social obligations invoked from body language and overt cues. When the Herald had stood suddenly in the middle of the meal, turning and disappearing into the gloom beyond their campsite, Dorian found himself moving without thought, making to follow before his mind computed what his feet were doing.

 _It’s not your place. You have nothing to offer._ The mind finally caught up, offered chastisement to the rest of his body, but his feet propelled themselves forward and after the elf.

The contrast was stark. The Herald he’d met in the Redcliffe chantry was all rapid fire action, barked orders and rift-closing majesty. She was no mage, but she wielded the immense magic of her hand with a practiced ease that suggested she learned quickly. When she connected with the rift, elation and energy surged through Dorian’s veins: this was a power more awesome and monstrous than anything he had witnessed before.

And then the rift was gone and the Herald’s spell was over. He’d tried to recover quickly, dropping pithy statements and bowing elegantly as he introduced himself.  
She hadn’t been impressed. To be fair, if it wasn’t for the mark, she wasn’t much to sneeze at either. She was pleasing to the eye, he supposed, but her elfy-ness was abject – her eyes were large and luminous, a green that unsettled him with their intensity. Her cheekbones were high, the planes of her face becoming expressive if she let them, and her daggers seemed like extensions of her elegant limbs. But she was a small thing, quick with her smiles and quicker still with the questions she dispensed like bolts from the dwarf’s crossbow. Swift decisions and able command – if her own words were to be believed and it was, indeed, random fate that brought the Inquisition the Herald, then he could see why some preferred to say she was a chosen of Andraste.

Still, Dorian hadn’t been sold. The mark was impressive, yes, but great power requires greater wisdom to employ it well. It wasn’t until after Alexius’ spell, not until it was just the two of them, floundering for purpose and understanding in the dark future below Redcliffe. He had watched her accept his explanation with a glib remark and little surprise. Instead, she’d elected action, _did_ instead of asked, and shown humble regret and honest apology as they encountered each of her comrades.

It was only at the end, when Leliana charged into the demon hordes, arrows spent and options limited, that Dorian needed to douse her with sense. She’d made to join them, her martyring friends, to negate all their efforts and let emotion win out over sense. Dorian had grabbed her arm – a slight limb, and so decidedly alive beneath his fingers – and pulled them back to the present.

He supposed that moment of hesitation was the beginning of her unraveling. Had paved the way for the Herald in front of him now, perched on a clifftop looking out over shadowy Hinterland, knees tucked under her chin. Arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could will herself into unbeing, vanish into nothingness through sheer desire alone. 

Dorian opened his mouth to say something, but, for once, no words came. His usual tack – some admixture of sarcasm and wit – seemed woefully inappropriate, but he was not capable of stark sincerity for this woman he had only just met. Instead, he settled for stepping out into the clearing, making to sit next to the Herald. At the sound of her voice, he froze.

“I’ll be back shortly, Dorian.” She didn’t look back at him. From this angle, all he could see was her dark hair and the slope of a cheekbone. “Thank you.”

 _For what?_ The wind tousled his hair and he wished again that his warmer robes weren’t covered in sludge. He recognized the sound of a dismissal in her words. It was probably for the best anyway – what consolation could he, a renegade Tevinter mage, noble bred and book learned, offer to someone like her? She was so clearly better than the rest of them – she’d plead for mercy for Felix, apologized to Cassandra for the future she couldn’t avert, nearly got herself killed to appease people who would never be. 

And she offered the mages alliance and a home, equal footing when it would have been so easy, so justifiable, to demand more. Alexius was spared and the mages were made partners. She had power at her finger tips, the ability to subjugate them all to her will, and she walked away from it.

How could someone like him have _anything_ to offer someone like her?

Dorian turned away from her and her palpable distress. It was easier, and wasn’t that what he’d always done? The easier path? Anger at Alexius instead of co-operation and intervention. Alcohol instead of emotion.

He’d felt worthless then, when he’d walked away from the Herald, left her alone on the clifftop facing the emptiness around her. And maybe it was that moment and that emotion that prompted his actions. Changes he hadn’t expected from himself – an offer of alliance he didn’t know he wanted to give.

But when the handsome Commander lit her up for her recklessness, Dorian had decided enough was enough. She’d lived through a hellish future and made it back, saved all their hides, only to be strung up for choices she’d made when decisions needed to be quick and confident? Dorian didn’t know how he felt about all the mages in Thedas running free, out of circles and abounding with liberty, but he understood irony well enough. Personal doubts aside, he had to stand with the Herald on this one.

“They should have been conscripted under staunch terms.” The Commander was pacing the war chamber, hands gesticulating his controlled rage. “We have nowhere near the resources required to monitor them all!”

“We cannot preach a doctrine of equality and order and trounce around Thedas enslaving those we deem ‘too dangerous’!” The Herald, Cassandra at her side, seemed bigger somehow, in this overlarge room. Her expression was set in stolid determination as she defended her decision, and her eyes simmered with the stronger emotions she was clearly repressing.

“Regardless of what was the wisest choice, the deal is made.” The spymaster interjected, stepping towards Cullen, as if to mollify him. Dorian would still have to get used to this version of the woman; the earlier one he’d met had been aged and sunken by magical torture, exuding a bitterness that made this Leliana look downright optimistic by comparison.

“The implications of this decision are far-reaching,” The Commander stopped pacing, put a gauntleted hand on his sword hilt. “We are taking dozens of mages to face a gaping hole between our world and the Fade. A hole that spews forth _demons_.”

“Yes, yes, and we know that all mages lose all sense of self-worth, dignity, and independent will at the very sight of a demon.” Dorian cannot help but interject. Ellana turns, surprised to see him; she had not realized he was present, casually leaning against the doorframe of the room.

“I do not mean to generalize, _mage_ ,” The word sounds like an insult on the Commander’s lips, and Dorian begins to think that maybe he isn’t so attractive after all. “But you cannot deny that the threat of summoning or possession is stronger in the presence of the Breach.”

“Well then, I will be sure to smack the first weak-willed mage I see on the side of the head.” He strides forward to stand next to the Herald and rests a hand on his hip. 

He is surprised when the Herald turns to address him, a look of unexpected pleasure on her face.

“You’re staying then?”

Was it that feeling of helplessness earlier? That feeling that he could offer her nothing, when he had so vividly seen all she could offer the world? In the aftermath of their romp through time, she had talked down a crazy Tevinter cultist, politicked politely with the King and Queen of Ferelden, and brokered an alliance with the leader of a rebellious group, potentially quelling an entire war. 

Or was it the moment that she’d sealed the rift in the Redcliffe Chantry and turned to him without pause, demanding answers. She did not hesitate when she acted. He wanted that surety of motion for himself. 

And, a smaller part of him admitted, there was the mark. Green, mysterious, overrun with a power that felt so different from the magic he’d known since birth. How could he walk away from a chance to study such a singular phenomenon? 

“Of course I’m staying, darling.” He put an arm around her shoulder and was mildly surprised when she tensed. Most women responded to his nearness more positively. The silly things. “Where else would I find such constant entertainment? You lot haven’t stopped bickering since we set foot in this Maker-forsaken town.”

The Commander scowls at him, and Dorian wonders if he’s sensitive, or if his instant dislike has more personal roots. When the stern man speaks, he turns to Leliana.

“Do we need _another_ loose cannon mage tramping around the camp?”

“Dorian is a member of Tevinter nobility, Cullen.” The Antivan ambassador interjects this time. “His connections may prove necessary – we have little foothold in Tevinter.”

Dorian snorts at the thought, but says nothing. Now is not the time to share the exact nature of his Tevinter ‘connections’.

Beneath his arm, he feels the Herald sigh. The Ambassadors and Cassandra continued on, points and counterpoints, and Ellana reached up and grasped the hand on her shoulder gently. She wore no gloves, and her tapered fingers were warm and calloused against his own. It was the hand that bore the mark, he noted dimly, but he felt nothing but skin and life against his knuckles. Gently, she lifted his arm and removed it, turned to face him and met his grey eyes with her own darker ones.

“I’m glad you’re staying, Dorian.” The force of her sincerity surprises him. He is used to the tangential compliments and guarded words of Imperium dinner parties – her forthrightness is foreign to him. “There is no one I’d rather be stranded in time with.”

Dorian hadn’t realized he’d made an impression. From his perspective, she was the one who took charge, solved problems, got them everything they needed so that he could cast his spell and undo that horrible future. Her words resonate within him, and he is unused to the feeling, to so apparently being the object of appreciation. He reacts, knee-jerk, the only way he knows how.

“It’s not personal,” He says with a glib half smile. “But let’s not do that again any time soon, shall we?”

She laughs then, and it is the first time he has seen mirth on her face since they came out of that vortex of the future. The Ambassadors bicker on, and she smiles at him. The laughter was gone quickly – this smile is small and sad. 

“Josephine will sort out quarters for you.”

He wants to say something to her then – something to capture the lightness of their shared moment, but then she is gone. She slips away on silent feet and he wonders how she has learned to be so soundless. Is that part and parcel of the Dalish elf way of life?

He decides he will spend the day finding out. Not from her, because she so evidently has no interest in show and tell, but through the grape vine. Her companions are a diverse bunch, and their co-operation proves equally varied.

“If you want to know about her past, ask her yourself.” Cassandra barely even looks at him when he approaches her later, in the training yard. “It is not my place to share her secrets.”

“Ah, so you _are_ a confidante then!” Dorian laughs at the glare she sends his way and strolls off to more promising quarry. 

The furry Warden with the perpetual frown proves more forthcoming. “She is a good person.” He sharpens his blade and he too does not look up at Dorian. What is it about these people and eye contact? “She has a strong moral compass, when she wants to.”

The skinny elvish girl with the bad haircut calls him a prissy Vint slaver and gives him the slip, and the Orlesian First Enchanter does not deign to acknowledge his trite inquiries. 

Dorian is beginning to feel a tad neglected when he encounters Solas. The villagers whisper about this one – an elf with no Clan and considerable magical ability. But Dorian is happy to find in him a fellow scholar, and they talk for longer than he intended, arguing about spirits and slaves and spirits as slaves. The tone of their conversation is not friendly, but Dorian did not expect to find friendship in Haven. He is satisfied that he is, for the moment, engaged in academic debate, and he senses the same from the elf.

“You should test your ideas on the Herald, not me.” Solas states suddenly, seeming to tire of his insistence the spirits were form without shape, fit to serve. “She is always eager to learn, and her ideas and preconceptions are more malleable than my own.”

 _Eager to learn, eh?_ That was something – he hadn’t pegged her for a scholar but Solas goes on to insist that she read quite widely. Because Dorian was hoping for a little more than these fleeting observations, he headed to the one place he knew was bound to have answers.

He found Varric and the strapping mostly-shirtless qunari side by side at the bar. He felt the eyes of the townsfolk on him, heard the whispers and stood straighter, shoulders back. There was nothing they could say or speculate that he hadn’t heard before – the Tevinter Imperium prided itself on the fear it generated amongst its southern neighbors, and Dorian had witnessed the aftereffects of that fear throughout his travels in Ferelden.

“Might I join you, gentlemen?” A smile and a flourish made him harder to refuse, he knew. 

“As one of the privileged few who witnessed whatever the fuck went down at Redcliffe, I’d say you’ve earned yourself a barstool.” The dwarf hopped over and made room for Dorian between the pair of them. 

“And a stiff drink.” The qunari’s voice rumbled. Dorian had known only a handful of qunari in his lifetime, and he’d never been as close to one as he was now. Dorian didn’t try to hide his assessment of the man – broad shoulders gave way to strong arms, and faint scars rippled along the surface of the qunari’s dark skin. _Impressive_ , Dorian decided. Iron Bull slide a tankard along the bar to Dorian, holding his gaze, and the mage nodded his thanks.

“So, how you coping with what the future brings, Sparkler?” They had argued over this nickname already. Varric insisted that he had no say in the matter. At heart, Dorian didn’t really mind. 

“I’d very much like to avert _that_ future, if possible.” He said with a delicate sniff of whatever homebrew resided in his mug. He made a disapproving face, but took a swig anyway. Here in the shadow of the Forstback mountains, he supposed one couldn’t be too picky with one’s drinks. “You two would as well, if you know what’s best for you. Neither of you looked too hot in future land.”

“Ugh.” The qunari slammed his mug down. Dorian suspected he didn’t intend the force – with arms that large, was it even possible to do anything gently? “That shit is all fucked up. Do we have to talk about it?”

Dorian recognized this reaction. Especially down south, many people regarded magic with suspicion and distrust, and the weirder it got, the deeper their distrust ran. Avoidance was a key tactic in the face of the incomprehensible. Dorian didn’t understand it – doesn’t understanding the unknown dispel the fear? – but he recognized the knee-jerk opining for blissful ignorance when he saw it.

“That’s just as well.” He said quickly. “I came here looking for gossip after all.”  
Bull snorted into his mug, but Varric raised an orange eyebrow, seemingly intrigued at the chance to tell a good story.

“What about, oh fearful magister?”

He scowled at the term, but he knew Varric was teasing. 

“What else but our fearless leader? I want to know how she got so, well, fearless.”

“You and everyone else got questions about her.” Bull said with a huff. 

“And there aren’t a ton of answers to go around either, though that didn’t stop Nightingale from strapping her to a chair and demanding the truth.” Varric sounds disapproving, but Dorian isn’t sure. 

So, there were trust issues among Inquisition leadership. He supposed that the presence of misgivings shouldn’t be surprising – anyone who walked out of the Conclave explosion alive was worthy of suspicion. But he wondered how deep it ran. Something about Ellana disarmed distrust, and he couldn’t imagine that such feelings were that widespread.

But Varric went on and surprised Dorian with the highs and lows of the Herald’s past. From what the dwarf had gathered, she’d travelled through much of the Free Marches and lived in Kirkwall for a time, working in a smuggling crew. He hadn’t expected that – most semi-religious justice-touting organizations would not endorse an ex-con as their mascot. 

He supposed it all came down to the mark. Ellana was an able fighter and took charge with a natural grace, but at the end of the day, her position in the Inquisition was only granted because of her mark. And she was rattled now, clearly fazed by what she had seen in the would-be future. Was she strong enough to pull through, or was Dorian getting involved in a cause that would soon be without a frontline leader? 

“I don’t know much about why she left Kirkwall,” Varric was saying, and Dorian forced himself to attend. It was so easy for him to get lost in the slipshod meandering of his own thoughts. “But I know her father was killed in a blood magic demon summoning.”

“What?” Dorian and Bull interject at the same time. The dwarf had been almost blasé as he rattled off her list of experiences. It was clear he wasn’t making the Herald’s life a story for his books – he was simply reciting the facts as he knew them. Dorian wondered at that – Varric had a storyteller’s voice, and yet chose not to use it on Ellana. Was the issue too close to home? How could that make sense if Varric documented the entire life of his so-called best friend, the Champion of Kirkwall? 

There was a noise behind them, a throat being cleared. Guilty, three pairs of eyes turned, knowing what they would find.

The Herald stood behind them. She’d changed out of her fitted leather armour and instead wore a white shirt with a dark vest and brown breeches. Someone has dressed her, Dorian suspects. The colours offset the olive of her skin with just the right amount of contrast, and the leather belt that held a dagger is inlaid with a delicate scrolling pattern. Her chestnut hair is out of the braids he has seen so far, and it cascades around her face and over her shoulders, is pushed back behind one delicate tapered ear on the left side of her face.

“If I knew you were going to be sitting around gabbing about me,” she says, letting a hand fall to her hip, “then I would’ve joined you sooner. You know, to stoke the rumours and all that.”

They are all stunned for a moment. Each of them was at Redcliffe; each of them had seen the withdrawal that came after. Ellana had turned inward, refused to let her guilt be assuaged or her fears released by their platitudes, their concern and their deliberately lighthearted banter. That Herald was nothing like the one in front of them now, crooked smile and light in her eyes. What had prompted the change?  
“Are you all going to stare or is someone going to buy me a drink? I am the Herald of fucking Andraste, after all.”

They laugh then and move over to a table. Bull orders a round and they settle in for the long haul. Varric launches into a story about Hawke and her grumpy elven lover, and he has them all roaring in minutes.

 _Is this how she plans to cope?_ Dorian wonders, eyeing Ellana speculatively as the slight elf downs her second pint. For so small a frame, the woman certainly seemed to hold her own with drinks. Dorian knows this strategy, knows that the bottom of a bottle would provide none of the closure she’s seeking. He didn’t want to let her do this, deflect, avoid instead of confront. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Herald cut him off.

“You two were dead in the future.” 

_Oh._ So she didn’t need his help to face her demons. Of course, why would she need him for anything, after all? Varric and Bull say nothing. 

“The red lyrium glowed from behind your eyes and you didn’t sound like yourselves. I don’t know if you drank it or just spent too long around it, but by the time we found you, you were already done.”

She sits next to Dorian, their chairs close enough for him to feel muted warmth from her body, but even he has to really listen to hear the hollow words. Her voice is soft, her eyes on her drink. The table is still; across from them, Varric and Bull wear uncertain expressions. And what could you say to a woman who told you what your death would look like if the stars lined up in all the wrong ways? 

“Here,” she shifts, leans to her right, shoulder brushing against Dorian's as she pulls something out of a side pocket in her vest. A notebook, leather-bound and worn. She flips it open and puts it on the table.

“Bloody hell boss, I didn’t need a visual.” Bull scoffs loudly, but he is drawn to the image. In charcoal, the Herald has rendered the qunari’s face, and from his eyes seep the hints of the mist that Dorian had seen. The signs of a red lyrium contagion; as Dorian’s grey gaze flits from the page to the qunari, he is struck at the likeness the Herald has captured. Though the future-Bull on the page is melancholic, the customary fury between his brows trodden down by months that Dorian and Ellana knew nothing of, the same defiance comes through in the eyes of the drawing and of the real qunari. 

“Did you draw that, Gemstone?” Varric reaches forward, stubby fingers revealing curiosity, and he gently flips through the notebook. One page back in the notebook is Varric, a portrait that begins at the shoulders and bears the same troubling _unwellness_ from Bull’s picture, the unease that red lyrium endowed. On the facing page, the Herald has sketched out an image but has not finished – Dorian doesn’t need the details to recognize the scene though. Leliana, reaching behind her shoulder and finding no arrows. Varric on the periphery, Bianca in hand. Bull, charging into a demon horde that seemed limitless, disappeared into dark scribbles on the page. The moment before they’d jumped through the time rift and back to the present.

“You died for me.” She looks them in the eyes now, first Varric, and then Bull. “I won’t forget that.”

“It looks to me like our lives were forfeit anyway, Gemma.”

“Still. It is no small amount of courage.”

Bull shrugs, leans back in his chair, and, oddly, there’s a smile on his face. 

“Good to know I went down fighting.” 

“You’ve got a good eye for folks,” Varric says, reaching forward to flip further through the notebook. He peeks up at the Herald, raising an eyebrow. “May I?”

The Herald nods and leans back. There are so many sketches, some just hesitant outlines, and others rendered in full detail, shaded, sculpted, like the ones she had showed them. Her horse pawing the ground angrily, Blackwall soothing at its head. Vivienne at the foot of the stairs in an Orlesian palace, a simultaneous combination of elegance and disdain in her bearing. Varric flipped through in no particular order, jumping back, launching forward, when suddenly, Dorian started.

“Give me that,” He pulls the book out of the dwarf’s hands and flips back to a page, just before the images from future-Redcliffe. It’s his face and shoulders, and they’re slightly twisted, a three-quarters view. She’s paid careful attention to the folds of his robe, the arch of his mustache, the slope of his cheekbone. 

But he’s unsettled because this isn’t what he thought ‘Dorian’ looked like. The Dorian in her drawing is not smiling, not posed with confidence and vigour. There is none of the ego that came through in the portrait of Vivienne, none of the mischief that she’d captured in Sera.

Instead, the Dorian in her notebook appears uncertain. His eyebrows are furrowed, as if in thought, and his expression whispers of a hopefulness that is quashed by a domineering pragmatism – he looks like he wants to believe in something, but can’t let himself.

Dorian looks up from notebook and meets the Herald’s eyes. She is watching him, her face an expressionless mask. He envies her that – he has no idea what his face says right now, but he certainly has no control over it.

 _How can she see right through me?_

She must’ve drawn this just after they met. Based on the drawings that came before and after, there was no other chronological juncture when she could’ve sat and sketched.

There in the Redcliffe Chantry, they’d talked for… what? One extended moment when the plan unfurled, and then he was gone. He thought he’d mastered the encounter with his usual flourishes and verve; he tried to remain ambiguous, but alluring, a combination deliberately chosen to ensure her curiosity and co-operation. All of that strut, that performance, and she _this_ is what she’d seen all along?

Her eyes are deep and Dorian knows that Varric and Bull are watching them. Wondering what in Thedas is going on. But when he meets that emerald gaze, the hubbub of the bar fades and the watching eyes don’t matter. He feels so vulnerable – if this is what she’d seen when they first met, what must she think of him now?

She had observed the worthlessness inside of him right from the start, and yet she’d smiled when he said that he was staying. Her joy then was genuine, as was her laughter just moments earlier as she sat next to him slowly getting drunk.  
The Herald took the book from his hands, let her fingers slide along the backs of his, and closed the volume with a gentle thump. Still holding his eyes, she smiled.  
Unwittingly, Dorian smiled back.

The Herald looked back to the others across the table.

“Thanks for listening.” She flipped her hair, encouraging dark locks out of her eyes.

“I feel better.”

“No problem, boss.” The qunari was happy to let the moment pass. “You’ll feel better with a few more rounds in you though.”

“You’re damn right I would.” She laughed, and though she didn’t look at Dorian again, he felt her presence. Her awareness of him and her acceptance of him.  
When he decided to join the Inquisition, he told himself he did it for her. He thought that if he worked hard enough, he’d have something to offer, both to her and to her cause. But as he wrapped his hands around another mug and launched into a story about Tevinter dinner parties, he knew that it wasn’t for her that he was staying. 

He stayed for himself, and for the way Ellana made him feel he could be. She knew what he was; she wasn’t fooled by the bluster. But she took a chance on him anyway, and that was more than anyone had done before. His differences – mage, Vint – didn’t scare her. He wanted to believe, did believe, that she would understand the other differences too.

Her belief in him – that’s what made his decision. He stayed because he so desperately wanted to prove himself worthy of that belief. 

*

Now that the horde of mostly crazy mages was parked in Haven, it looked to Bull like the boss was doing everything she could to keep herself out of the camp.  
They were back in the Hinterlands now, and Bull was beginning to wonder just how many pelts of ram wool and racks of meet the Crossroads’ really needed. So while Sera and the Herald were a sight to behold – crouched, unseen, until they would stand, bows drawn and swiveling to follow their quarry – this avoidance strategy could only go on for so long.

Not that he was going to discourage the boss. She was, after all, the one footing the bill for the Chargers. 

She was also mighty good at keeping him amused – killing dracolisks, bears, the odd Templar or two. And now this.

He deflected her charge by pivoting forward on one foot, ramming his shoulder into her torso. She had no weight behind her – the contrast in their sizes was completely ridiculous – and went flying. But she turned the blow into a backflip and landed in a crouch, fingers of one hand braced on the ground between her feet. Then she was moving again, a blur as she ducked out of reach of his axe.

Bull let out a frustrated grunt. _She was relentless_. She launched in, elbowed his stomach, kicked at his ankles, thwacked his back with her blade and he was grateful they’d wrapped the weapons in cloth for their sparring match.

“Enough!” He roared, reaching out and grabbing one of her twiggy arms. He lifted, and her feet came off the ground – she twisted and kicked but his arms were long enough to hold her out of reach.

Blackwall barked out a laugh from where he sat, stoking their campfire.  
The Herald stilled, hung limp and glared at him. In the gathering night, her eyes were dark and indistinct.

“You could have done this the whole time, and you still humoured me?” Her voice is flat.

Sera cackled.

“Really, Sticks, you thought he was trying?” Bull doesn’t understand the ratty blond elf half the time, but he likes her. Likes her enough not to contradict her – he had held off in some ways, yes, but that didn’t mean that fighting the Herald was easy.

“I wanted a good fight.” He turns his attention back to the elf who dangled, feet a foot off the ground. She weighed more than he’d expected , but then, when she hit him, he’d realized she packed more muscle than he’d expected too. He knew she was quick; her strength caught him by surprise. “You gave me that.”

Most folks he’d sparred with, human or elf, would’ve protested by now. He couldn’t imagine her shoulder felt good, bearing the brunt of her weight. But not the Herald. He was learning so much about her that wasn’t worth recording in the Ben Hassarath reports. 

For instance, their sparring match taught him just how much she hated to lose.

Her legs swept up as she folded herself in half – the amount of core strength that needed! _She’s got to have a wicked set of abs,_ Bull thought absently before his brain processed what she was doing. Her legs wrapped around his arm and tightened. Her thighs twisted viciously and Bull’s arm twisted, his hand flexing open as he let out a grunt of pain.

Her wrist now free she pushed back, scrambled over his shoulders as she dropped down to wrap those same legs around his torso, squeezing. Her knife came up to rest against his neck but his hand gripped her wrist and pulled the blade away. He panted as her legs squeezed tighter – she was _not_ going to get him to call mercy.

Instead, he staggered about in the increasing gloom, thwacking backwards into a tree. He heard the Herald grunt as the wind rushed out of her, and then she was off his back and he was free. He spun, tried to find her.

Blackwall and Sera had fallen quiet by the fire. The dancing red orange light was all Bull had to work with – the night surrounded them full and completely now. The boss was in her element, and Bull recognized his chances were slim. 

He didn’t hear her, but he felt the air shift as she launched out of the darkness to strike at him. He parried clumsily and swung his axe. She dodged back, then slipped in under his arm to strike at his stomach.

With a shout, he bent his knees and hoisted her off the ground again, one arm around her midsection. She let out a startled yelp, but Bull was in full fighting mode now. He hefted her up with one arm and sent her flying towards a tree.

As her body connected to the trunk with a solid thump, he cursed himself for letting his instincts win. That was probably too much. She was the boss after all.  
But then Ellana was gone. In his moment of thought, he’d lost sight of her. He spun, ears perked as he tried to find her.

“You are so done, Muscles.” Sera’s taunt was light and Bull ignored her.  
A rustling from the leaves above was all the warning he had. Rustling and then a solid weight crashing into his shoulders as she fell out of the tree above him.  
The weight knocked him to his knees and Ellana scrambled off, braced herself, and sent a punch right into the side of his face.

Bull fell backwards, sending dirt flying as his back hit the ground. Ellana hopped up, perched on his chest, and rested her dagger at his throat. In the scuffle, the cloth binding was gone. The steel was cold and Bull knew how sharp it was.  
She leaned over, a savage grin on his face. Bull couldn’t help it – laughter bubbled out of him and she was cackling too, sitting back on his stomach and pushing hair out of her face. It’d come out of her bun, the dark strands, and Bull had been contemplating grabbing a handful of it to slow her down. 

He’d refrained from all those dirty tricks, but he was happy to see she’d exercised no such reservations. Ellana was small. She had to fight with what she had. She wasn’t like Cullen; propriety and honour didn’t mix with the elf on the battlefield. 

“You are one crazy elf, boss.” 

She grinned at him, teeth bright in the night. Standing, she offered him a hand.

“Crazy. Maybe.” She tilted her head. “But I won, didn’t I?”

Bull grinned back. He couldn’t resist.

He took her hand and pulled her, sending her face first into the dirt next to him.  
She was silent for a moment and he wondered if he’d gone too far. Then her laughter bubbled up into the dark as she rolled on her back; she was laughing so hard tears formed at the edges of her eyes. The Herald’s voice was normally low, but when she laughed she sounded so much like a normal woman, a woman who wore dresses and bought ribbon and did her hair up pretty for dinner parties. Bull’s laughter alongside hers was low and deep, loud in the crickets and the stillness of the night.

All of these moments that didn’t fit into his reports. The Ben Hassarath were breathing down his neck, insistent in the letters they sent, always demanding more. But what could Bull tell them? The Herald was batshit crazy, sometimes reckless and sometimes bleeding-heart merciful?

That she laughed and rolled in the mud and was hyper competitive to a fault? That she surrounded herself with Thedas biggest collection of discarded goods, strong-principled rejects with agendas of their own? A rogue Vint magister, an insane vigilante elf, a sullen Seeker and hermit Grey Warden?

“You two should join us here.” Ellana’s laughter had stilled and now she stretched a hand up in front of her. Thin fingers stretched, flexed open and closed. “The stars are beautiful.”

Bull glanced over at the Herald. Her face was still now – the mirth was gone, replaced by a contented, thoughtful look. The others walked over, Blackwall, without his armour for once, settled in next to the Herald and Sera folded herself down by Bull. 

“Does that Chantry have an answer for what makes the stars?”

The Herald’s voice is soft and the question genuine. No one answers. The Qun doesn’t give a shit about the stars, Bull thinks, but he does not say the words. Sometimes it’s just nice to lie around and not think about anything. The Herald seems incapable of doing that though. She’s always full of questions – asks him about Seheron, about his past, about the Qun. About the damn stars and the people they know. She needs to learn how to relax.

“I’m going to have to face the Breach again when we get back.” The Herald has folded her hands on her stomach now. Next to her, Blackwall grunts his assent.  
“You can do whatever you want, big hat.” Sera chirps.

“I know Sera, but I _have_ to do this.” The Herald ignites the green on her hand and Sera yips.

“Why you got to always be waving that thing about?”

Everyone seems fascinated by the mark on Ellana’s hand. The Ben Hassarath had questions about that and Bull explained as best he could. She doesn’t know why she has it – or so she claims. It closes the rifts. It’s a tool and she’s learned how to use it. What more is there to say?

“You are the only one who can do it, Herald.” Blackwall is gruff and sometimes he and Bull don’t agree. The man puts everyone else first. Help the refugees, train the weakest soldiers, let the Herald run him ragged demanding lessons in this, that and everything under the sun. But Blackwall always concedes. Bull doesn’t understand his willingness to help. Beyond keeping the Chargers in line and the Herald alive, what other responsibilities should he have? Bull respects the Warden; he’s good with his sword and fun at the bar once you’ve got a few pints in him. 

“I know,” Ellana says, and the crickets chirp on around them. She twists her wrist and the green light goes out. Darkness surrounds them again. By the camp, the fire crackles. Overhead, the stars glitter.

She falls asleep there, and so does Bull. Blackwall, always responsible, takes watch and when Bull wakes he’s got elves on both sides of him, huddled close against the chill of the night. 

There are so many versions of the Herald that are entirely incomprehensible to him. For instance, later that day when they return to the Crossroads to turn in the pelts and meat they have gathered, the Herald makes a friend.

She’s crouched in the corner by the healer’s hut, cooing softly at something. At first, Bull thinks he better leave her alone. Must be some weird elf thing. But then he hears her giggle, and the sound is so girlish he just has to know what’s brought it out of her.

He walks over, and the Herald looks up when his shadow covers her kneeling form. There’s a look of sheepish guilt on her face.

“What are you doing, boss?”

She clears her throat, turns, and stands. Her arms are wrapped around something furry and dark.

“Uhm.”

“It’s a cat.” The thing peers at Bull with big green eyes. It’s black and ratty, but from the way it cuddles up close to Ellana’s chest, it’s clear that the creature’s made a friend.

“Yes, it’s a cat.” She meets his eyes as if daring him to saying something more.  
He just chuckles and shrugs.

“You’re the boss, I suppose.”

The cat follows her everywhere as she concludes their business at the Crossroads. _She must’ve fed it or something,_ Bull thinks distantly. The qunari don’t keep pets and especially aren’t interested in something so small and so apparently defenseless. Blackwall tries to pet it but it skirts deftly around his hand and curls up against the Herald’s legs. She looks down at it and smiles before bringing her gaze back to the lieutenant they’ve left in the village.

When it’s time to head out, he expects her to say goodbye to the mangy thing. But instead, she pulls out her cloak, folds it, and rigs a makeshift sling around her torso. The cat protests as she lifts it off the ground, but it seems to recognize that Ellana is its best bet for continuous feeding and affection.

 _This is not what the Ben Hassarath want to hear,_ Bull thinks as he mounts up after the Herald, following her lead. The Inquisition’s most vital asset has taken a pet and plans to ride all the way back to Haven with it curled up against her chest. Breaking news indeed.

The cat becomes a fixture around Haven, much to the amusement of the townspeople. At first, it stayed cautiously inside Ellana’s hut with her, but as the days passed it grew bolder, venturing out and staying close to the Herald. It followed her to the war room and sat on the table, purring softly as she pet it and listened to her advisors. It followed her out into the training yard and sat at a respectful distance as she sparred with Cassandra. And it curled up with her when she sat beneath a tree or on the pier, her sketchbook out and her eyes downcast.  
It was here, with the damn cat by her side, that Bull found her. They had been back in Haven for almost a week now. 

“Hey Boss.” 

She looked up at him a smiled. He took that as an invitation, settled down next to her. He glanced down at the notebook in her hands, watching as her charcoal swept in and out, highlighting and shading. He looked up at the scene before them, and then down at her notebook. She was capturing the moment – Cullen in front of the men, barking orders and looking stern. Rylen, hand on his hip as he awkwardly tries to look imposing. The men in ranks, poor stances and shields held too low. Her sense of atmosphere was perfect. Something else not worthy of his reports – _the Herald likes to draw. She’s pretty good at it._

“How are the Chargers settling in?”

This is what she’d done last time he tried to have a conversation with her. Bull didn’t deliberately seek out conversation that often. Damned if he was letting himself be sidetracked by her again.

“Boss.” Bull turned his one good eye to regard the Breach. You could nearly hear it humming if you looked at it for long enough – the green mists swirled, monstrously huge, in the sky. “You’ve got to do something about that.”  
Next to him, she sighed. Her cat, curled contently against her outstretched leg, looked up, blinking at her.

“I nearly died last time.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke. Her green eyes remained trained on the Breach.

He didn’t know that. He’d heard only the stories – she was the Herald of Andraste, she’d stood alone against the Breach and stopped the demons that poured through it with a wave of her head. Having seen her close the rifts, he’d known it couldn’t have been so effortless. That sealing the Breach temporarily must’ve taken much out of her because even the simple, small rifts sent her to her knees, gasping and panting. 

“A demon came out of it.” She closed her notebook, tucked the charcoal in a pocket. “The biggest demon I’d ever seen.”

“We’ll be with you boss.” Bull knew what it meant to be afraid. In Seheron, nobody could be trusted, and every time you slept, you prayed that you’d wake up the next day. Seheron was a different type of fear. A fear you couldn’t see and a tension that was with you always. But big enemies, demons and monsters – that was fear Bull could handle. He could offer the Herald something against that type of fear.  
She turned to him and studied his face. He met her gaze solidly.

She nodded.

“Thanks Bull.”

He nodded back and stood, walked away. She didn’t like the discussions. He’d learned that about her by watching Josephine or Red try to sidle up to her and get answers. For all her questions, when it came to herself, she preferred to do instead of discuss. He’d wanted her to know he had her back. But he didn’t want to daunt her with the threat of a long talk and feelings shared. He knew she didn’t need that. She was the Herald – this was what she was meant to do.

The next day, she announced that they were marching on the Breach.


	9. Unravelling

_Do I contradict myself?_  
_Very well then I contradict myself,_  
_(I am large, I contain multitudes.)_

_Sweet Maker, all those torches. We are dead. We’re all dead._

_I should’ve kissed her. Would she remember in the morning? It doesn’t matter now._

_The Herald will save us. Won’t she? She can use the mark. They can’t hurt us if Andraste walks with us._

_What’s that over there – a… boy?_

Cole had been seen. Good. He had to let himself be seen or there would be nothing he could do. The panic was tangible, alive in the air as the soldiers closed ranks on him and wrap his arms behind his body.

“They are coming. I know who they are!” They need to understand. They need to listen. Their voices swell, arguments stacked upon their discordant thoughts, but Cole just needs them stop and be for a moment. 

The doors open and a man is down the steps and in amongst them, barking orders, demanding answers.

_It’s all falling apart. Why? Who are they and why now?_

The man’s face betrays none of the fear his mind reveals. Cole knows he must persuade this person, that his plate mail and the fur on his shoulders and his bearing signal him out as above the rest.

“The Templars are coming! I have seen them,” he struggles against the metal arms of the guards that hold him, but they do not let him go.

“Who is this boy?” The man, tall, blonde, armoured, demands.

“You must listen! “

“Stop this!” Another voice, and Cole follows the sound. 

When he first sees her, he does not realize how dramatically his life is about to change. How she would be the one to change him. She is an elf, his mind registers; her cheekbones are high beneath expressive almond eyes. His gaze is drawn to her naturally, and he is unaware of all the future implications of this moment, is instead lost in the present-ness of it all. 

She is pretty, like the setting sun; her eyes contain the light of a star just before it vanishes beyond the horizon. Her frame is slight but curves in ways he know men think about, and her dark hair glistens in the torchlight that burns around them. She moves quickly, is at his side in an instant, pulling guards away. Deferentially, they step back: she commands respect from them, it seems. 

But her thoughts are what arrest his attention; they are loud, multitudinous, and different from the din of the soldiers.

_He’s only a boy. What are they thinking? - Stupid. Reckless. How could I have sanctioned the celebration? – This will not be how it ends. Not after all we’ve done._

With a glance at their leader, the man with the fur on his shoulders, the guards fall away and she is left face to face with Cole. Cole looks down into her eyes – he is surprised to find that he stands a little taller than her. From her presence, from the force of her in his mind, he would’ve thought her… well… bigger.

“Herald, please, let me handle this.” _Why is she always like this? It’s like she wants to get herself killed._

The man in the armour moves closer, tries to get between the woman and Cole, but he will not let that happen. Cole reaches out and clings to her arms because he understands suddenly that _she_ will listen.

“You must listen. They are Templars. Samson and the Elder One will be here soon!”

“Herald, we cannot trust this boy.” The man stands angrily at their sides, is vying desperately for her attention. “For all we know the Templars may have sent him!” _Always trusting. First that crazy elf, then a Tevinter magister and now what? A daft boy who can’t string a sentence together? Why is she so damnably trusting?_

“The Elder One needs to be here. He needs something.” The words tumble out of Cole’s mouth before his thoughts catch up to him. Stop. Cole. You know they do not like it when you tell them too much. You know that you make them nervous.

But not her. Somehow she is already processing his warnings as fact – _the Elder One. Already? But Orlais is standing. What have I done wrong?_ She meets his eyes levelly. She is not unsettled by his prescience. 

“Cullen. Give me a plan. If these are Templars, many of our men won’t stand a chance.”

“My lady.” The man, Cullen, reaches out as if to touch her, then lets the hand fall. _So much risk. And always on her shoulders._ “I can go with you.”

She shakes her head. _Now is not the time for heroics._ “We need you here, Commander. Fall back to the town with the villagers and less experienced troops.”

 _This is why there are rules to govern hearts and blades._ Cullen nods firmly, sense returning to his amber eyes. “Take this contingent and secure the trebuchets, Herald. Once those are operational, we may be able to cripple their forces before they arrive.”

She nods. Looks back at Cole. He warned us. _How does he know so much?_ The question battles in her eyes before the slightest shake of her head sends it skittering off. _He is helping. The rest can wait._

Inwardly, Cole beamed. Helping. That is all he hoped to do. 

“Keep him safe, Cullen.” And then she is moving, bounding off into the snow and shouting orders over her shoulder. “Blackwall, Bull help Cullen defend the gates and organize the retreat. Vivienne, can you marshal the mages?”

Behind them on the stairs into the town, her companions wait. Cole knows they are loyal to her; they watch her with an anticipation that denotes their relationship before Cole even needs to venture into their minds. She is the leader. They will do her bidding.

They are unique and strong-willed, the lot. Men and women in armour and robes, battle ready. Their thoughts compete, jumble over each other.

_This place was never defensible. What were they thinking to tarry here so long?_

_Is this to be our last fight? I have not done enough to redeem myself. These stripling lads will fight and die here._

“Sera, Solas, get on the walls and lend aerial support. Cassandra, Varric, Dorian – you’re with me.”

_This is not how it is meant to end. The orb remains in his hands. This cannot be allowed to pass._

_Oh lovely. So flattered that she chose me. I simply can’t wait to face certain death. Again._

_She can do this, can’t she? If anyone can save us, it will be her._

And then they were all moving, like ants in a hive, released to do their queen’s bidding. A gauntleted hand wrapped around Cole’s bicep, and he found himself in tow alongside the big Commander. The man was yelling orders, mind racing, and Cole glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, the woman and her companions disappeared over a snowy ridge, weapons at the ready.

When they passed through the gates and into the town, the thoughts exploded. Uncertainty and fear, doubt and hope and stacked feelings upon feelings that made Cole close his eyes and breathe in deep.

 _Shut it out._ The cacophony. Shut that out, just for a little bit.

His mind acceded, and he let himself focus on one person at a time.

Cullen, next to him, face stern and words brisk. But his confidence gave the townspeople purpose, Cole realized. Gather your loved ones, stay in your homes – words they could act on, and for that clarity, they were grateful.

The bigger man released Cole. But the boy stayed by his side, recognizing that this a person who could make use of his help, if only he would listen. Two women scurried towards them and Cole let himself reach out with tentative tendrils of his mind, tapping into their thoughts.

 _Oh good. Cullen is here. The Herald must be out there then. She will find away._ A dark face framed by dark hair – her expression is concerned when she reaches the Commander.

The other woman is tall and her face is cold, eyes judging. _Who is this boy? We do not need more liabilities, especially now of all times._

“Josephine, Leliana.” Cullen came to a halt. “This is….”

He looked down at Cole. The boy looked up at him. What did he want?

“What’s your name, lad?”

Oh. That. They needed names.

“Cole.” He met the tall man’s eyes. Cullen grew uncomfortable, cleared his throat and looked away.

“Yes, well. My soldiers found Cole outside the front gate. He warned us that the army is made up of Templars. Samson leads them.”

 _How did you end up on this path Samson? You could have been someone so much better._ Cole does not understand the regret in Cullen’s mind. 

“Is the boy correct?” The red-haired woman is hard, like glass. _I pulled back my scouts. Foolish sentimentality. I could have prevented this. “How can you act on the intel of a stranger, Cullen?”_

The man opened his mouth to respond, but then a shriek ripped through the night, drowning out all their thoughts and screams. Dark wings and a shadow passing over them. Cole knew what he would find if he looked up.

_Archdemon. Like the one from the Fade._

The horror that resonates through the townspeople is so strong it nearly drives Cole to his knees.

“There is no way the Herald and my men can stand against that.” Cullen looks back, and the two women met his gaze with terrified expressions of their own. 

“We must retreat to the Chantry. It is the only building that can withstand such a beast.” Cullen started to move, drawing his sword. “Take the boy and organize the people. We fall back to the Chantry.”

“Where are you going, Commander?” Josephine calls after him. 

“I must warn the Herald and my men.”

And then he is gone, and the women are doing their best to restore order. Around them, flames begin to consume the town.

 _Help._ They need help. Cole is scurrying then, away from the women, ignoring the shouts they throw after him. They will organize the villagers. Start the retreat. Cole will help those that cannot help themselves.

He’s up a ladder and into a building on fire, pulling slats of wood of a red-haired man. 

“Who… what?” _A boy? We’re all fucking dead. Herald of fucking Andraste my ass._

He needs something to believe in. Not Cole, but something bigger.

“The Herald sent me.” The words are firm in Cole’s voice. He doesn’t know what they mean, but he knows that he sees a change in the man’s face. Is it hope?

Then they are out the door, the man’s arm heavy on Cole’s shoulder.

“Uh,” the man stares at him. “Thanks.” And then he is gone, limping away.

There are others, in the flurry of raging red Templars and frightened cries. He cannot save them all; he cannot hold off the Templars that scurry over the walls like so many spiders, honing in on helpless flies.

He sees Cullen again; he is holding the front gate open, ushering his men through. Overhead, a noise like splitting souls rings out. The archdemon is hungry. Cole cannot help it; his gaze is drawn upwards and the colossal creature fills his mind.

 _It is death,_ he realizes. Death personified, a beast larger than any normal dragon, it’s wings veined with bloody dark lines, it’s mouth a yawning maw of teeth and gore. 

“Come on!” Cullen’s voice brings him back to himself. He is standing in snow and soot, the fire of the building behind him uncomfortably warm on his back. 

_Why is she always the last one?_ It is the Commander’s thought, and then she is back. The one they call the Herald. She’s in and the front door is closed. Her companions form a ring around her, and she turns to Cullen for guidance.

 _Haven is burning._ Her thoughts make Cole feel empty inside. Sadness, a sense of failure that he wants desperately to extinguish.

 _Don’t you know that you give these people a reason to live?_ He wants to shout the words at her, to remove the hopelessness he sees in her expression. Around her, her companions look equally bleak.

“Gemstone, we’re running out of options.” The dwarf, stout and cynical, radiates worry. _We aren’t prepared for this shit._

“We are falling back to the Chantry.” Order. We must make order out of this chaos. The Commander, expression grim, is trying to be a leader.

The woman by the Herald, tall and stern, seizes on the Commander’s words.

“We will help organize the retreat.” _It cannot end like this, it cannot end like this, it cannot -_

“There are people trapped in the buildings.” He realizes they can help him. Help him save those that he could not. He walks forward. “You must search the buildings.”

The Herald meets his gaze and he does not need to read her mind to see that he has given her purpose. 

“Let’s go,” and then they are moving, up the stairs towards the tavern. Cullen watches them go before turning to soldiers who wait by his side. He gives them brisk orders, and then starts to march himself.

“Come on, boy.” Cullen takes his arm again. “You’re not safe out here.” As if on cue, a red Templar spews through the wall, and Cullen’s sword is out. The Commander fights with the able confidence of someone who has done this his whole life. The Templar charges, but Cullen parries and pivots on his heel, sweeping his sword out and at the creature’s legs. 

Crippled, it falls to its knees with a horrible cry; Cole covers his ears. Its thoughts are anguished, violent, betrayed. _It’s the Knight-Captain._ The thing is dying under Cullen’s blade as the Commander hacks at its shoulders, its neck, relentless in the destruction he creates. _Knight-Captain Cullen. Can’t he see who I am?_

_Can’t he help me?_

With a strangled sob, the Templar shudders and dies.

Cole breathes a sigh of relief as the dead thing’s agonized thoughts leave his head. The Commander proceeds without a backward glance at the crippled mass that once was a man.

“Stay close,” he says as he passes by Cole, wiping viscous blood off his blade. 

As they move through the town, marshalling villages into the stone building at the apex of the hill, Cole hears a noise. A soft mewling.

He pulls away from the Commander’s side and hefts a piece of splintered wood out from against a building where it lies. Two green eyes glow out of the dark at him.

“Boy, what are you doing?” 

The creature in the cramped space makes a mewling noise.

 _Her damned cat._ The Commander’s thoughts are loud; he directs them at himself. _Cullen, this shouldn’t be a priority right now._

But then the man is at Cole’s side, kneeling in the snow.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, hand out. Cole watches him, perplexed. What made this man, all firm orders and uncompromising decisions, soften so readily? “Come on you blasted thing.”

Slowly, a fuzzy heard emerges and Cole sees that it is indeed a cat. A small, skittish thing, afraid of the flames and yelling that that have enveloped the town.

It gives an inch, peeking forward hesitantly, and the Commander takes a mile; he grabs the thing by its scruff and thrusts it into Cole’s arms.

“There. You take care of that thing.” And then they are moving again, Cole trailing along, the warm ball of fur oddly still in his arms.

He looks down at the cat and it looks back up at him. 

_Take care of it._

He smiles. “I will take care of you. Don’t worry.”

The cat blinks up at him. He cannot tell what it is thinking. He wonders why.

Then, they are inside the Chantry; he ducks passed the Commander who holds the door for him and another straggled bunch of villagers. Cole can feel the energy in the building; it thrums through his veins, a nervousness that cannot be quelled, thoughts that overwhelm each other, reflecting pain, uncertainly, blind wistfulness.

_She will save us._

_He exploded – the blood, his eyes, he’s gone, gone –_

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade_  
_For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s Light_

Cole lets the undulations of the thoughts roll over him. Sweep him away as he cuddles warm life against his chest.

“Ssh,” he whispers gently to the cat. “Be still. Here.” He lets the animal crawl beneath the folds of his cloak, and it perches itself on his shoulder. Claws dig in to his skin, but Cole does not mind. Keep it safe, he’d been told, and that was something he could do.

When he finds the dying Chancellor, he realizes there is more he can do. The Herald is back with them now, exchanging heated words with the Commander.

“We can choose how we will die – not everyone gets that’s choice.” Cullen’s voice is intense, pitched low as he holds the Herald’s gaze with his smoldering eyes. He does not want the townsfolk around them to hear. Inside, he has given up. _What more could we have done? She doesn’t see it, not yet. How do I tell her that it’s all over?_

The Herald is shaking her head, refusing to compute the Commander’s words. Her thoughts and her words are in sync. 

“No. There must be a way.”

The Chancellor, leaning against stacked sacks of grain, gurgles. He is choking on his own blood. 

“He knows!” Cole strides forward, shifts one of the dying man’s arms over his shoulder. He hefts the older man towards the Herald, knees buckling under his weight. “Roderick can help.” Cullen and the Herald turn uncomprehending eyes on him, but then the Chancellor is speaking, revealing the impossible. Giving hope.

Determination returns to their faces. Cole sets the old man down. Roderick’s thoughts, despite his pain, are peaceful – _the Maker has made use of me at last._

“Commander, can it be done?” 

Cullen surveys the men around them, tallying refugees against soldiers. He nods.

“We must move quickly.” He turns to depart, but the Herald speaks, freezes him in place.

“This many people will not escape the dragon’s notice. You need a distraction.” She stands, seems suddenly small in the large vaulting chamber. Her companions are fanned out behind her, holding posts at the Chantry doors. 

_No._ The Commander turns, looks back over his shoulder to her. She remains still, expression set. He turns to face her, looks down at the elf and wills to himself to find another solution. _No. It shouldn’t be her. Why does it always have to be her?_

What Cole knows can help here. Help make the Commander accept the facts. He decides to share it.

“She is the only thing the Elder One wants.” He steps forward, touches the Herald’s elbow. He wants to give her strength. They all look at her like she should have the answers, but she is such a small thing. 

She meets his milky gaze, and he is astonished to read absolute trust on her face. “He will kill the rest of you for sport,” Cole continues, holding her eyes. “But he will not rest until he has taken what you have stolen from him.”

“What I’ve stolen?” Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she comprehends him immediately. The green glow – the fissure in her hand. _Stolen? This?_

“What does he know? He’s just a boy.” Cullen’s tone aims for lightness and fails. The Commander moves closer too, leaning forward as if the force of his earnestness could ever be enough to change their fates. To erase the steely resolve that already gathered in the Herald’s eyes.

 _You cannot save her, Commander._ Cole needs to be firm. Clear. He speaks again.

“He will ravage and burn until there is nothing left.” The fleeting images return. He’d seen the distorted monster of a man that led the Templars. He’d felt the creature’s dark presence in his mind, not in coherent thoughts, but rather in wide slashes of trauma and terror. Whatever the Elder One may be, he was no longer a man. His capacity for destruction is limitless.

“I have to do this, Commander.” She tears her gaze from Cole’s to regard the taller man. Though her words sought to convince him, her thoughts were aimed at herself. _This is because of you and your mark. You have to be the one to fix it._

“He is only blackness and fire.” The memories assault Cole now. His rotting face, laced with pulsing red. His limbs, unnaturally long, his grip powerful enough to crush a skull. “I don’t like him.”

His words dispel the intensity of the situation, and Cullen barks a bitter laugh. 

“Don't like him?” He shakes his head. _This boy. Of course she’d take his word without hesitation. How did she get so far on blind faith?_

“Keep him safe, Cullen.” She says, giving Cole a small smile. “He helped us.” The Herald reaches out and grabs the Commander’s hand, clasps it between two of her own. 

_She’s so warm. Why does it have to be this way? I should -_

“Keep them all safe.” _Was Marethan right after all? A pity I’ll never find out._

The Commander nods. Floods himself with irrational optimism. 

“Maybe you will find a way. Surprise it. You are the Herald.” _Is she though? Does it matter? The Maker has forsaken us all anyway._

The Herald smiles sadly.

“Goodbye, Cullen.”

_No. Stop. Turn around._

She turns to her companions. The dwarf, Seeker and mage wait by the Chantry doors, weapons ready. Cole knows that they will follow her – their thoughts are dark but their loyalty is constant.

“Herald.” The Commander’s voice. Firm now. Spoken over the din of the villagers, and they fall silent to listen. They begin to comprehend what is happening – what their Herald is doing for them. _This cannot be in vain. Good must come of this._ “If we are to have any hope at all, let that thing hear you.”

She smiles, tilts her head to the left. She is framed by the Chantry entrance way – fire and snow twist angrily behind her, a luminescent vortex in the blackness of the night. 

“Commander. You know that dramatic entrances are my specialty.”

And then she is gone. 

*

His face, blue silk against the wall and pain in her wrists. She was bound – then his hands were trapping hers. He was a nobleman, soft and vain, but his hands had the strength of a trained knight. Where did that strength come from? How did it disarm her over and over again until even the thought of resistance infused her with weariness, suppressed action and stagnated defiance?

 _If I don’t resist,_ she distantly wondered, _what am I? How can I let this happen?_

His palms are sweaty, manicured nails dig into her wrists. But then the hands grow, turn rough and huge, scrape deeper still as long fingers circle the entirely of her slim limb.

_Corypheus._

She is suspended, mid-air, twisting violently. Her shoulder cannot take this for long – she fears the dislocation that she knows is coming. Under Corypheus’ dead eyes flooded her with a sense of dread that almost dwarfed the pain. In the distance, Haven was burning.

Corypheus shakes her like a rag doll, and she is trapped again. Helpless. 

She’d sworn to herself, after the room with the blue drapes. Sworn that she would never let herself be helpless again.

And yet the so called-Elder One’s hand on her wrist sent her back to that place, that room with its too soft sheets and too bright lights. 

_You are nothing. Less than nothing. An accident and a thief._

Well, Ellana had been a thief most of her life. At the very least, Corypheus couldn’t hurt her pride.

His voice rang against her eyelids, clattered inside her head, resonated as if she could feel it in her chest, drowning her. He called himself a god. In his presence, Ellana was nothing; helpless and insignificant. Standing before him, horror pooled in her stomach, threatened to swallow her whole. He made her feel like she was back in Kirkwall’s grottos, watching a demon rip her father’s throat out with the easy grace of an Antivan dancer. He made her feel like she stood in the shadow of a thousand rage demons; as if the creature from the Breach came forth and multiplied, attacked her from all sides. He made her starkly aware of her own fallibility; her thin flesh and hot blood, so delicate and so ready to rupture.

She fucking knew it. The Herald of Andraste? An ex-con elf who couldn’t walk with the Dalish anymore than she could survive on shemlen streets? People were pathetic, so desperate to believe something. The mark wasn’t meant for her; it was circumstance and not purpose that thrust her into the Inquisition. 

Corypheus was a god. Or at the very least, a centuries old magister who had seen the Golden City and spat at its vacancy. What chance did she have? Was what she’d done enough? A bout of quick thinking – a dirty trick with a trebuchet that Athenril would’ve endorsed wholeheartedly.

Was it enough?

By the Maker she hurt.

Where was she anyway?

 _Open your eyes, Ellana._ Her father’s voice. She must be losing it.

 _Ellana._ Marethan now, mothering her in that annoying way of hers. _Get up._

_Da’len. Starlight. Gemstone. Herald. Lavellan. My lady._

So many things to so many people. Voices, reasons that made it harder to just lie there and give into the cold. 

But it hurt _so much._

 _You must help them._ That strange boy. He looked like a teenager halfway through puberty – awkward limbs and movements too broad or short for his body. A mop of pallid hair and milky eyes. Words that were scarily true.

He was right. Only she had seen Corypheus. The others had run, just as she’d instructed. Had they got away?

 _You have to get up to find out, Ellana._ Her own voice. _You cannot let that horrid future come to pass._

Since when had the concerns of the world become her problem? It had been straightforward once. Try to understand the mark. Try to get rid of it. Help the Inquisition because they had resources and information, connections no Dalish elf could ever garner. 

But was that all? Or was there more? Help the Inquisition because Cassandra was so sincere in her belief in the Inquisition’s rightness? Because Leliana served the cause with hard and unwavering dedication, and Cullen with a genuine belief that they were the only stabilizing force in all of Thedas. Because Josephine was sweet and tactful and Varric was full of regret, searching for a way to right wrongs Ellana didn’t understand. Solas stayed even though it put him at risk; Blackwall joined even though doing so changed his life. So many sacrifices from so many people – Sera and Vivienne, leaving the worlds they knew behind. Bull and Dorian, trying to appear mercenary, but driven forward each day by personal conviction. 

These people – noble and lowborn; elf, dwarf and human, woman and man – made the world’s concerns her own. And they made her feel like a leader. Like someone – no, like the only one – who could take their dreams and desires and translate them into action.

It was annoying. But it was also exceptionally gratifying.

She’d said it to Elhan, in the letter she wrote. They gave her purpose. She’d never known that anywhere else. Everything else was meandering, being instead of doing.

They gave her a reason to get up. 

She groaned. Opened one eye and then the other. Snow and wind. She’d fallen through some sort of scaffolding. She tried to laugh, and a dry hack worked its way through her lungs. _Beats falling down a mineshaft, I suppose._

She levered herself onto one elbow, ignoring the pain the jolted through her torso. _All_ of her hurt. 

She rolled onto her side. Even in Kirkwall, she’d never taken a beating like this. 

_How many times can I do this?_ She forced herself onto her hands and knees. Her armour was in tatters, and an angry red gash pulsed at her side, ran from below her breast to her hipbone. Her arm gave out, shoulder crashed into the snow.

_How many times do I need to get the complete and utter shit beaten out of me?_

She grunted and pushed again. Both hands levered her upright, onto her knees. Her palm, cold, wet with snow that melted at contact with her bare fingertips, grappled for purchase on a nearby slab of rock.

Ellana pushed and her stomach gave a sickening gurgle. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her side, trying desperately to keep her insides from becoming outsides.

One faltering step was followed by another. The snow rose up, almost engulfing her calves. She lurched forward, fractured thoughts cohering and scattering again with every move she made.

 _This is the kind of wound that ends people._ Her fingers pressed into her side; the pain that resonated through her core kept the dimness of her vision at bay. _By Andraste, I’ve given this wound to people, so many people._

A slow death was not a priority for her. Haven burned, yes, but then she’d stopped the burning. Covered it all in snow at the sign of Cullen’s flare – given them an end if they hadn’t escaped, and an exit if they had. Corypheus might be a fucking living god, but _he_ hadn’t saved anyone this day. Not like she had. In this one thing, he was no –

 _No._ A noise, a subhuman wail that Ellana knew all too well. Her thoughts were stifled.

 _I’m dead. That was the cry of a demon and I can’t even lift an arm over my shoulder to draw a dagger._ She closed her eyes. All of that work. She’d been damned lucky to land in some abandoned cave. To end like this? A miraculous survival, cut short by some lesser creature of the Fade, something so trite she didn’t even know what it was called?

She opened her eyes and there were four of them. Sprite like creatures, cloaked in green swirling mist that reminded her so much of the mark. They advanced, eerie jaws unhinging, magic gathering around them.

Ellana, clutching her side, would not balk. She’d killed dozens of these creatures when she’d faced the rifts. They were nothing, but she could barely stand.

 _No._ The hand that gripped her side pulsed suddenly. _Not like this._

Instinct drove her. She pulled that left hand away, grimacing as blood jutted out and down her leg. Her palm came forward and power surged along her arm, through her body, banishing the pain for one blissful moment.

The world turned green. Noise roared in her ears, and pressure built up in the chamber, the wailing of the demons reaching a frequency even elf ears could barely process.

Then, the demons _sundered._

The light went out, and Ellana was on her knees again, panting with exertion. She looked up, paradoxically sweaty in the frigid chill of the Ferelden winter. Her gaze peeked through her hair, but the demons were gone.

She sat back on her knees and looked at her palm. It was red with her own blood and she could not see the mark.

_What monster have I become?_

She had _unmade_ them. There were no corpses, no visceral remains. Just nothingness.

Distantly, a wolf howled. Ellana knew she had to keep moving. Every moment of pause was a moment she might never get up again.

She trudged onward with no sense of time. Soon, she was outside the cave. The wind whipped and snow consumed her. The remains of a fire pit promised nearby life, but the cold was eating her alive by then. Numbing her such that she could not even process hope.

 _Dorian._ The thoughts in her head made no sense. Were these the thoughts of a dying woman? _Will he be mad? I never replaced his robe._

Inexplicably, she feels a giggle bursting up and out of her lips. She is going to die out here, alone in the cold. She survived an encounter with a demon-made-god or Andraste knows what. With his archdemon pet and with Templars so far gone with lyrium that you could not see the man in them. 

_Varric will make me a martyr_. All of that surviving and the cold is what gets in her in the end.

_Maybe I’ll be more useful to them as a martyr anyway. A martyr can’t roll in the mud or fall off a horse._

Her face hits the snow as she collapses.

 _There._ She tells the voices in her head. _You can’t say I didn’t try, father._


	10. Survival

_Still round the corner there may wait_  
_A new road or a secret gate_  
_And though I oft have passed them by_  
_A day will come at last when I_  
_Shall take the hidden paths that run_  
_West of the Moon, East of the Sun._

_She is dead._

Josephine cannot think; everything is falling about around her. It’s so damnably cold and she cannot think.

She had let the Herald go. Behind them, when snow enveloped the town and the creature of the abyss took flight, she had made her peace with the Herald’s death. She had embraced her sacrifice; she’d said to Leliana that this was a good thing. Something they could work with.

Words. Words, words that hadn’t convinced the spymaster at all. Josie, trying to comprehend, trying to be like Leliana, so able to move on and reformulate. She could spin this, the Herald that had been born, lived, and served with the Inquisition, dying so that its survivors might get one last chance at redemption. 

She spilled the narrative in stumbled words, unwilling to acknowledge the tears that streaked down her cheek as their entire procession froze and turned to the remainders of their home. The snow cascaded down, a thundering roar and unending tide of whiteness. Sheer whiteness. So unlike Ellana herself, olive skin, dark hair and dancing dark eyes. 

“Like Andraste, she dies for our freedom.” She is muttering the words, and Leliana simply puts a hand around her shoulders, letting her fool herself. 

The Herald was dead to her then. Without the wings of that demon, no one could survive such a torrent of nature and cold.

Cassandra was broken by it.

“She told us to run.” Varric and Dorian stood behind her. The other companions had been spread amongst the refugees. But at the collapse of the mountain, they filtered their way forward to stand with the advisors. 

“Why’d you let her stay! She’s the boss – what were you thinking!” The unkempt elf girl is splitting at the seams, anger in her face as she shoves at the Seeker’s arm.

“She planned it like this, Buttercup.” Even the dwarf can muster no lightness in this moment. He puts a hand out to try to calm Sera, but the elf swats him away.

Josephine looked at them. Cassandra, a dead emptiness in her eyes. Dorian, fists clench and face unreadable. She glanced at Cullen, and felt rage simmer in her stomach.

 _He knew._ The Commander’s eyes are on the snowy rubble of what used to be Haven. His expression is agony and regret. _He let her do this._

Josephine does not get angry. Her training, first as an ambassador, and second as a bard, does not allow for it. Anger is unproductive and obliterates reason. It is unsuited for any pragmatic purpose in the agent; the truly effective negotiator will use her opponent’s anger against them.

But in that moment, she wants to throttle the Commander and send him back in time to correct the tragedy that he’d allowed.

“The numbers support it, Josie.” Leliana’s words are muttered low, pitched only for her ears. 

Josephine’s anger gains a new target with the spymaster’s whisper. The numbers? This was the Herald of Andraste, a young elven girl who’d believed in their cause. Trusted them when she had so repeatedly been wronged in the past. 

_She would have done it anyway._ Perhaps that was what hurt the most. Josie knew what determination in the Herald looked like. Knew that if this had been her plan, no other outcome would have been possible. The Herald hadn’t needed permission from any of them.

And so she’d made peace with the moment and followed Cullen’s eyes out to observe the blanket of snow. Around them, blizzard winds whipped fiercely. She closed her eyes. The Herald was gone.

But then, the boy had spoken. The one with the misty eyes and fragmented thoughts. What was he – this awkward creature?

“She needs us.” The boy appeared – where had he been standing? – urgency on his face. “She is cold. _So cold._ ”

Cullen grabs his shoulders.

“Speak sense!” He rattles Cole, and Cole lifts his own arms to the Commander’s shoulders. “Does she live?”

“If you will save her, then maybe she lives.” 

Glances are exchanged among the crowd, and Josephine doesn’t know what to think. Who to turn to. 

“Josephine, Leliana. Find mother Giselle and continue leading the people.” Cassandra is the one who finally speaks. None of them want to hope. Who is this boy, and how can he know anything? But Cassandra always was the most devout of them all.

“Cullen, you are with me.” She strides forward into the snow. “Bring the boy.”

And soon they are gone, engulfed by whiteness that threatens to swallow them all. When they return, Josephine cannot help the strangled cry that breaks out of her throat.

 _She is dead._ So pale. Once sun-browned skin is now white. Eyes are closed and dark lashes do not flutter. Cullen’s arms engulf her; her cheek is against his shoulder and the Commander’s eyes on her face, heedless of the Seeker who walks before him, shouting orders. They are nowhere significant or defensible, a snowy channel between two mountains, but she orders them to halt. Tents are assembling quickly, the Chantry sisters moving among the refugees, soothing softly. 

Mother Giselle walks up to Cullen, says something, stroking her Herald’s face with one elegant hand. Josephine is frozen in place. She could accept it, Ellana’s death, from afar. She could let her friend be buried beneath rubble and snow. But seeing her – her limbs dangling, her side a gory mess, her face bruised – seeing her was another beast entirely.

But then Cullen is following Mother Giselle with the deference of a lifelong Chantry boy. The woman is moving swiftly, calling out, beckoning Solas and Vivenne near. They disappear inside a tent together and Josephine is unsure. Takes a few tentative steps towards the tent.

“Ruffles,” there is a voice at her side and she looks to see Varric. “They say that she’s alive.” 

She meets the dwarf in the eyes and wonders why is telling her this. Was her disassembly so apparent? Why did the Herald matter so much, and why did Varric want to ease her worries?

Questions for a bard. For Leliana. Josephine just smiled and bent forward, wrapping her arms around the dwarf. He tensed – clearly he wasn’t expecting the overt affection – but then he softened and returned the hug. 

For a while, there is anxiety in the camp. The refugees and soldiers whisper reverentially, hovering around the Herald’s tent. _She died. She must’ve died. And yet she lives again?_ More words Josephine could work with. An even more enduring mythos, a story of sacrifice and resurrection.

What did she believe? She slipped inside the tent later in the evening, when things were certain. The Herald was naked from the waist up, breasts and abdomen wrapped in bandage. She has tossed to throw her blankets aside, it seemed, and her brow is furrowed as if she suffered an unpleasant dream. Bruises are scattered across her body and an angry welt spreads across her collarbone.

But there is warmth in her cheeks, and her hair is a distraught mess around her face, a silky brown on the drab grey of the cot. The pointed tip of her left ear peaks out from beneath a braid, and Josie’s fingers itch to correct the tangles, to encourage them fall straight around her face. If Josie stares long enough, she swears she can see the pulse below her chin. 

Cullen is at her side, seated, one of her small hands dwarfed in his own large ones. His gauntlets are off, Josephine notes, and he runs a thumb meditatively across the back of the Herald’s palm. The fingers of his other hand trace her wrist, and it is only then that Josephine notices the dark mottled skin of a bruise that surrounds that limb. Someone had gripped that wrist – held it hard.

 _I cannot be angry with him,_ she thinks. Cullen has not turned to acknowledge her entrance. His gaze remains forward, on the Herald. _He did what his position demands of him. Clearly, it has distraught him._

She kneels next to Cullen, puts a hand on his arm.

“You did the right thing, Commander.” 

Always gracious, he smiles softly at her. Cullen is a handsome man, though he hardly seems aware of it. Josephine wonders at his past – she has heard the stories, read the dossier. But apart from her superficial teasing – it was really just too easy with the Commander – she hardly knew him at all. But she understood that he was a man of duty and honour. She knew that the choice between the greater good and his friend would cripple him inside.

“I know,” he says quietly, turning his amber eyes back to the Herald.

“Solas and Vivienne seem confident that she will make a full recovery.” Why did she always end up in these roles? Reassuring, supporting. _No_ – not always. Varric had, after all, offered her comfort earlier that day.

“I am glad of it.” The Commander’s strong fingers tightened around the Herald’s hand, and Josephine eyed the movement, marveled at the contrast in size. Man and woman. Human and elf. Ellana was such a delicate thing. Her eyes followed the joined hands up, admiring the sleek lines of muscles, the rounded shoulders that betrayed Ellana’s unexpected strength. Her bosom was generous, especially for an elf, and her torso curved in at the waist – a natural figure that many an Antivan woman would kill for. 

But Ellana was nothing like those women, with their corsets and berets. Nothing like the ladies of Josephine’s younger days. Her grace was born not from ballroom dancing but from a life on the streets, where fleet-footedness ensured that there was food to eat each night. Her figure was not accented, objectified to demonstrate that _you_ were the perfect gift, but instead was hidden behind layers of leather. Loops and belts and secret dagger sheaths, pressed flat against smooth skin. Her beauty was accidental, not intentional, Josephine concluded, wishing that she was alone with the Herald so that she could test – could see if that skin was as soft as it looked.

Accidental beauty. She huffed. What a cliché. Just this morning, she’d applied her own eyeliner and shadow, curled her bangs just so. As if her fashion mattered in Haven. As if it had changed their fate when the Templars came.

Cullen stands then, softly putting the Herald’s hand to rest on the cot. _A man who sees everything as a nail._ She’d said something like that to the Herald once, but wondered now if she’d been wrong. If gentleness could be coaxed out of the Commander. From the way his fingers slipped off her wrist, Josie suspect that the Herald had already done that coaxing.  
Cullen nodded to her and left. Outside the tent, he heard Cassandra engage him, draw him into conversation with Leliana. The Seeker was like Cullen too – all decisive action and firm edicts, but softened by the Herald’s charm. 

_How do you do this to all of us?_ Ellana’s brow has relaxed now, and her face looks peaceful. If Josephine ignored the spreading bruises, the darkened splotch on her bandage, just below her breast, it would be easy to think the elf asleep.

She gives into her earlier urges and reaches out. Slides her fingers along a cheekbone, and then down her jawline. Elven bones are so delicate. Like brushstrokes. Josephine’s finger curl against Ellana’s neck, pressing gently, taking comfort in the slow but steady pulse beneath her fingers.

“Thank you for coming back to us, Ellana.” The words are quiet in the stillness of the tent. 

Outside, she can hear an argument beginning. 

“Maker knows what we will do now,” she mutters. Cullen is urging reconnaissance; he is almost yelling at Cassandra, insisting that they must search for a more defensible position. Leliana, oddly, insists that they need more rest, that the people have suffered too much to move on so soon.

Josephine sighs.

“You are lucky you sleep through this,” she tells the unconscious elf. Ellana was especially good at not arguing. In the war room, she’d stand quietly why they lobbed suggestions and criticisms at each other. She seemed almost inattentive, at first, but Josie came to recognize her downcast gaze and still expression as thoughtfulness, not withdrawal. 

Mentally, Josie was already preparing a list of nearby nobles they could appeal to. The others were foolish to think of staying or striking out blind; she knew her voice was needed in their discussion.

“I will see you later, Herald.” She smiles at the woman and lays a gentle kiss on her forehead. Then, she is out of the tent and adding her voice to the fray. They argue for hours, but the words and points get repetitive, bitter, and insufficient. They reach a deadlock, and retreat inside themselves.

The next time she sees the Herald, Ellana is doing just what Josie remembered. Stepping into the argument, solving their problems in a way that none of the advisors expect.

Mother Giselle is the one who rescues them from their bitterness. Her smooth voice clearly surprises the Herald, who is on her feet and wrapped a loose shirt. At the sight of the elf and the start of the song, the townsfolk rise, step forward. Leliana’s soprano joins in, and Cullen’s full tenor.

The Herald stands before them all, visibly weak, but smiling. There is peace in the words the Chant, and the haunting sound of hundreds of voices rises up through the mountains, warming Josephine within.

She is their Herald, regardless of what she believes. And, after she disappears briefly with Solas, she returns with a solution so unbelievably attractive that none of them are able to reject it, despite the objections of their rational mind. A place in the mountains, an abandoned fortress.

The next morning, they begin to march. The Herald leads them through the wilderness. Josephine feels as though they are a part of a myth in the making.

And that’s why she’s shocked to discover the Herald, that evening, huddled a way on the outskirts of the camp they’ve made. She’d torn herself away from her companions, from the townsfolk who asked for her blessing, and sat in the shadow of a large rock. Curled in on herself. Knees up. Confidence gone. Her face is open and afraid; nothing like the ready leadership she’d displayed all day.

“I have been looking for you, Herald.”

“I know you all have questions.” That expression, the terror in her eyes – it’s gone. She’s replaced it. That neutral mask slides into place and Josephine knows that the Herald does not want to be seen like this.

 _I have made her afraid to be seen like this,_ Josie realizes. _All my lectures on image and reputation. I have not left her with time to grieve._

They had lost dozens in Haven. Friends and allies. Entire families. The Herald had witnessed that destruction and then faced down an enemy none of them could envision.

“We need to know what happened,” she said gently. The advisors had sent her to find the Herald, assuming, probably correctly, that she was the softest of them all. The one the Herald liked best. Josie felt a little like a traitor as she forced her friend to share, to speak words she so obviously did not want to face. 

“I know,” Ellana says, staring off into the darkness.

Josephine eyes the snow around the elf with a little distaste. She pulls her cloak close and goes for it – she sits in the snow next to the Herald, leaning back against the large rock. 

“I don’t know how you can sit there in only your armour.” She says through chattering teeth. “This Ferelden weather is almost as barbaric as this nation’s people.”

Ellana barks a laugh. 

“I didn’t know you _could_ be mean, Josephine.” The elf smiles at her, and Josie is glad to see the expression on her face. 

“I grew up in the woods around the Free Marches. Ferelden winters are _nothing_.” Ellana’s words are belied by the way her hands rub along her triceps; warmth is something they are all coveting. 

They are silent for a time and the wind blows. Between the trees and in the mountains, it is howling. Almost a living thing.

“This keep of yours. I know nothing of it. It is on no maps that I have studied.”

“It will be there. I trust Solas.” Ellana is looking into the night again. Josie wonders at the greenness of her eyes. 

“How can you trust at all, Ellana?” She spoke without thinking. What was it about this elf that undid all of her training?

Ellana turns to study her face.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

 _No going back now, Josie. You might as well ask._ Her mind has been slower, since the avalanche buried Haven. As if it needed more time, more space, to catch up to the rapid fire way that everything around them changed.

“Because every time you do you’ve been hurt. Leliana’s report said that your father took you to Kirkwall without explaining that you were leaving your clan forever.”

Ellana nods, but doesn’t say anything. Again, her gaze has slipped away. The elf seems unfocused, as if afloat within herself. Attending, but not really present in the conversation. 

Unwittingly, Josie sidles up to her, pressing her side into the elf’s – _Ellana wants the warmth,_ she tells herself.

“And then the woman you worked for – the smuggling queen. The report says she betrayed you, sold your father to a blood mage. Allowed his murder.”

Ellana shrugs. “I never learned exactly what role Athenril had to play in my father’s death. Maybe I should’ve sought her out.” 

She is playing with something, between her fingers. A wooden token. A crescent moon. _Something decidedly elvish,_ Josephine thinks. Try as she might, Ellana cannot deny what she has been born. 

“And when your lover betrayed you?”

Ellana’s gaze is arrested then, snaps to Josephine’s face.

“What do you know about that?”

Josie leans away slightly, taken aback by the Herald’s sudden intensity. She raises her hands disarmingly.

“Only what Leliana reported. She said that he betrayed you and that you left Kirkwall as a result.”

Ellana meets her gaze, holds it, eyes intense as if judging Josephine. Scanning her for what? Honesty? The whole encounter felt wrong; Josie chastised herself. She never should have said anything.

When the Herald finally speaks, it is quick and decisive. Her voice is flat.

“He sold me out to a man who imprisoned me for months and repeatedly raped me.”

The Herald stands and is walking away. Josephine is frozen in place, the weight of the words immobilizing her. 

_What?_

Leliana knew. Cassandra knew. They must – she must have written something, _anything_ , in her journal at some point. Why hadn’t they written as much in the report on the elf? Josephine stands, stares after Ellana’s retreating figure. So small, curled in on herself against the darkness. 

What right did Josie have to know, really?

She had never suffered trauma like that. She looked down at her hands. Her nails were caked in dirt and a bruise formed over her wrist and along the side of her palm from where she’d been struck by debris during the collapse of Haven. This was hardship for Josie; her sisters would be appalled to see her skin in such a condition. The _one time_ she’d killed another human being – _that_ was her trauma.

And yet Ellana was their Herald. A victim of something so unspeakable Josie couldn’t think straight. A pawn in their maneuverings – the only one amongst them who’d had almost no choice in joining the Inquisition. A tool they routinely deployed to kill, to sunder and seal rifts as needs demanded.

“Ellana, wait!” Finally, her feet respond to what her heart knew she was supposed to being doing. She caught up to the Herald outside the command tent. Inside, Cullen and Cassandra’s voices were raised in disagreement.

“Ellana,” she reaches out and grabs the Herald. It starts as a touch on her shoulder but then she is pulling the woman into a hug, full-bodied and fierce.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Ellana is startled, tense at first before she relaxes into Josephine, returning the hug gently. 

“So am I.” Her voice is small, whispered into Josephine’s neck. They stand for moments, and Josephine for once is heedless of the eyes around them, the soldiers who stand and watch, the refugees who stroll by with curiosity in their faces.

“Josie,” The elf is hesitant when she speaks again. “Are you crying?”

Josephine is crying, sniffling and unable to hold back tears. All the things she cannot do for Ellana. The Herald is _good_ no matter what Leliana suspects or Cullen fears. She does not deserve the past she has endured or the future that they are giving her.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.” From her muffled words and broken voice, Josie thinks that the elf might be crying too.

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything to help.” The Antivan woman sniffs, an undignified sound, but she no longer cares. “I’m sorry I can’t make any of this easier for you.” Her voice – what would her trainers in Antiva say if they could see her now? _An Ambassador’s greatest asset is her detachment – her ability to work within the emotions of others, but never succumb to her own._

“I know. It’s alright, Josie.” The Herald lets her go, pulls her away with gentle, but insistent, arms on Josephine’s biceps. 

“I… uh,” the Herald looks down. For once, she is unable to hold Josie’s gaze. “I’ve never told anyone. Out loud, that is. Leliana and Cassandra know because they read my journals. But I’ve never said the words.”

“You’re doing it again.” She and the Herald are almost the same height. Josie hadn’t noticed until that moment. The Herald always felt bigger than her small size – she could fill a room with her presence, if she wanted to. “You’re trusting. Even though you of all people should struggle with that.”

Ellana smiles.

“Some people make the decision to trust easy, Josie.”

The elf’s hands slide down her arms. She takes Josephine’s hands. Snow falls around them, lightly now. The wind has died down at last.

“Come on.” Ellana is still smiling. “I feel better. Let’s go debrief this debacle.” 

Ellana turns, releases the Ambassador’s hands and walks over and into the Command tent. But Josephine cannot follow right away. She is floored by the emotion of the exchange, and she feels almost unworthy of the words Ellana spoke.

She sighs, takes a deep breath of the frigid air and turns her gaze to the sky.

_Maker watch us all. Bless us all, but especially bless her._

She squares her shoulders and follows Ellana into the tent.


	11. Responsibility

_The very good people did not convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands - and you hated the things it asked of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before - and it's better than anything I've known._  


*

 _Okay,_ she thought, annoyed. _I_ s _uppose the wall has handholds_ \- that is, if you considered a narrow fissure in the side of a stone brick, or the shallow crevice between each block a 'handhold'. Varric wasn’t _entirely_ full of crap.

“Maker’s balls,” the woman muttered as she heaved herself upward with one leg, her foot pushing against the lip of one of stone blocks that made up the massive grey wall she scaled. “Maker’s flaming balls.”

What the sassy dwarf’s note had neglected to mention was that the stone exterior of Skyhold, the inexplicably monstrous keep that somehow managed to lurk, unknown, in the mountains for decades, was _coated_ in slime. Decades of obscurity meant decades of built up bird shit. Moss. A million other things that the dark haired woman clinging to the side of keep did _not_ want to contemplate for too long.

“This,” she groaned as she her shoulders engaged and she hefted herself up another foot, fingers scrambling for purchase on the next block up. “is _not_ what I signed up for.”

“Scale the wall, no big deal.” The muttering continued and she reminded herself not to look down. The climb up the mountain was fine, but she’d expected a covert welcome from some secret passage, Varric with a sly grin and ready wisecrack. Instead, she’d found a note hastily scrawled in their agreed-upon spot.

 _Sorry brighteyes._ Varric’s cursive was as dramatic as his storyteller’s voice, wide loops and needless pomp. When she was in a bad mood, the careless scribbles made her want to punch something.

She wanted to punch him right now.

 _Curly_ ' _s establishing a guard rotation. He'_ _s going nuts, all guilty eyes and overcompensation. All the ground entrances are under watch but they don'_ _t have anything firm in place for the walls yet. I_ _’_ _l_ _l see you at the top, by the rookery. There are handholds. Shouldn't be a problem for you what with you being all bendy and whatnot._

The rookery. Hence the bird shit. Lovely.

She swore one last time before her fingers found the blessed crenellations of the top of the wall. With a last inelegant grunt, she swung herself up and over the edge, feet finding welcome and firm purchase on the stone walkway of the battlement.

“See? I told you. Easy as making Daisy blush.”

She was panting hands on her knees. Panting and filthy, covered in sweat and Andraste knows what. But she wasn’t going to let him see that. She straightened, hands on her hips.

“I own half of the Maker forsaken city that you call home.” The dwarf’s eyebrows raised, but she didn’t care if she looked like nug dung caked to a caravan wheel. She _was_ going to wipe that smug look right off Varric’s face. “I’m so rich I could buy the boots right off your stinking feet.”

The dwarf’s grin broadened. He was, she noticed unimpressed, even cleaner than usual, nauseating orange hair pushed back in an orderly sweep, his gaudy chain necklace shining like he’d spent all morning polishing it.

“And,” she took a step forward. “I’m so fast I could have you over this stupidly high wall before Bianca would even hear you scream.”

Blue eyes met hazel ones and she tried to keep her face serious.

“I’ve missed you Hawke.”

Her face broke into the crooked grin she knew she was famous for, and then their laughter was echoing up to the clouds.

Below, she noticed over Varric’s shoulder as she pulled the dwarf into a messy hug, the residents of Skyhold swarmed. Ants with purpose, clearing debris, laying out ordered bedrolls for the injured, already assembled in tidy lines and practicing sword forms.

A people desperate for purpose in the wake of a terror they didn’t want to remember.

 _He_ _’_ _s back._ Varric’s letter had said, the dwarf’s looping script spelling out an impossibility that felt like a punch to the gut. Warden-Commander Larius had disappeared. The other wardens had been odd of late, vacant or simply vanished. Hawke knew that, had seen the signs and a distant part of her had wondered. But even still she couldn’t believe because she’d _seen that demon magister die,_ felt his body cave and life retreat beneath her daggers.

 _It_ _’_ _s him Hawke. He told the Inquisitor that he_ _’_ _d seen the throne of the Maker and that it was empty._ A frantic energy in Varric’s penwork, a nervousness she’d rarely known from him. That scared her as much as his next words had. _Sweet Andraste it_ _’_ _s fucking him. What do we do?_

She’d written back immediately.

_I_ _’_ _m coming._

Her father’s blood magic was what had held Corypheus at bay all those years. And it was her actions that in part set the magister free. Was anywhere safe from him?

She turned and contemplated the climb she’d just performed. Skyhold was a miracle beyond comprehension, it’s sprawling walls seeming seamlessly into the mountain side.

“This place…” she didn’t have words for it.

The isolation that Skyhold exuded had been foreign to her until very recently. Before the fall of Kirkwall, her life was city streets and the too-close press of strangers, an illogical juxtaposition of lightning reflexes with knives in the dark or stupid dresses and the brash declarations of mid-day duels. Aristocratic ladies and ambitious crime lords. Downtrodden elves and proud dwarven merchants. Impassioned mages and righteously indignant Templars. The thought of that last pair caused Hawke’s fingers to ball in angry fists at her side.

Who she was angry at? The slumped shoulders of a feathered robe – a friend who made all the wrong choices at the very worst of times. The angry, intense eyes and uncompromising jawline of a lover who disapproved of her beliefs and her decisions, his rage so palpable that it brought his skin alight. Herself, for letting it come to pass. Hawke frowned, tried to will the thoughts away as she’d tried so many times before.

“Impressive, right?”

Beyond the battlements, the Frostbacks stood proud, their hard surfaces mottled with green below the peaks. Altogether different from the jagged cold and uncompromising frost of the Vimmark Mountains where she, Varric and Fenris had followed Janeka.

“How did they find it?” She spun slowly, eyes missing nothing as they swept beyond the curling wall of the rookery, admiring the broad stone pathways and busy energy of the refugees below. She stepped forward, brought her hands to the opposite ledge and looked out over Skyhold.

Varric was talking at her side, spinning simple facts into myths and miracles. Their Herald _lived_ – she’d saved them all and buried their former base of operations in an avalanche she shouldn’t have survived. They’d made her the Inquisitor and she’d unflinchingly lifted a sword and given them all hope.

It should’ve been Hawke.

Her fingers tightened on the battlement wall as she watched the men and women scurrying and desperate below.

She’d _known_ what Corypheus was. She’d seen what red lyrium could do. She’d fought and led and bled on this sort of scale before. Who was the Inquisitor to the Champion of Kirkwall?

 _Your damned ego._ Fenris’ voice in her head and she remembered all the reasons she had for fleeing. With Varric’s help, the Inquisition never found her. _You_ _’_ _re not the only one who can save the world, Hawke._

For all his brusqueness, Fenris knew what she wanted to hear. It was so easy to walk away from it all, to go into hiding never thinking that Varric would become so impossibly tied up in the Inquisition’s web.

But the gaping wounds, the hollow eyes of the survivors of Haven, and the blood that soaked into the ground of the courtyard below – Hawke had seen this sight before. A city turning in on itself, neighbour against neighbour. A woman with an accursed blade and madness in her eyes.

A friend, sitting on a crate, his shoulder’s heavy with the weight of what he’d done.

She couldn’t save Kirkwall from itself. And now the darkspawn she’d released had all of Thedas as his prey.

What place did she have here?

“Hawke?”

“Sorry, Varric.” She looked down at her friend and smiled, her anger about scaling the wall gone. There was no time for self-deprecation. “Just marvelling at the grandeur that could’ve been mine.”

Varric snorted.

“Assuming they wouldn’t run you through on the spot.”

She laughed then, a light sound against the crispness of the cool mountain air. Choices in the heat of the moment when everyone was demanding justice for what Anders had done. A justice she couldn’t deliver, no matter how many steadfast allies demanded it. The prince of Starkhaven with disappointment in blue eyes so like her own, the countless silly moments they’d shared now forgotten.

The former entourage of Divine Justinia had every reason to want her dead.

“A fair point. But really, when _isn_ _’_ _t_ someone trying to run me through?”

Varric chucked and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s complete bullshit.” He confided, hazel eyes on hers again. “But somehow knowing you’re here makes me feel like everything’s gonna work out.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“No pressure though, brighteyes.”

“Go fetch this new woman of yours, dwarf.” She kicked him lightly in the shin. “I want to see what you’ve scrounged up to replace me.”

He laughed again, waving over her shoulder as he ambled away.

“As her grace demands.”

“I thought we’d agreed on ‘her majesty’!” she shouted after his retreating back.

Her smiled faded as Varric disappeared down a staircase. She leaned forward on her elbows, gazing out over the courtyard below. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she ought to be more cautious. Varric went to great lengths to keep her presence in Skyhold a secret. But with their new poster child Inquisitor, maybe the caution was overdone. Maybe they could finally let Hawke be Hawke.

She looked down at her hands, callused fingers responsible for more lives than she’d ever imagined as a young girl in Lothering. She was _tired_. But the red lyrium and the haunting voice of a darkspawn that spoke – this was a fight _she_ had started.

 _“_ _Why does it always have to be you, Hawke?_ _”_ _Fenris paced the length of their encampment, a little nowhere in the Free Marches._

 _“_ _My father was the one who kept him imprisoned._ _”_ _She stood in front of the elf, arms crossed, stillness and determination against his unchecked frustration._ _“_ _We let him out again._ _”_

_Hawke didn_ _’_ _t believe in destiny or fate. Most days, the Maker was a convenient excuse for her actions, a distant entity she had given up on long ago. But her family_ _’_ _s history was woven in with the Conductor, a series of encounters that had put the Magister on his present path. Responsibility was there and Hawke did not shirk at responsibility._

_“_ _I have to do this, Fenris._ _”_

 _“_ _No,_ _”_ _he snarled, launching himself at her, fingers surprisingly gentle as he grasped her shoulders. That was always Fenris_ _–_ _a study in opposites, ferocity and softness all at once when it came to Hawke._ _“_ _Why does it always have to be you?_ _”_

_She looked up into his eyes, green against the moonlight of his hair. Kissed him gently but he pulled away. Anguish in between his eyebrows and she felt a tightness in her chest. Swallowed and put a hand up to his cheek._

_“_ _I_ _’_ _m sorry._ _”_

The sound of footsteps behind her brought Hawke out of the memory. She turned, rested her elbows back on the battlements and watched Varric approach with the stranger.

“Her Inquistorialness,” Varric swept an arm towards Hawke and bowed. “May I present the Champion of Kirkwall.”

The Inquisitor was small. Dark brown hair and tanned skin, intense eyes but delicate features that were set in a mask that even Hawke couldn’t read. Hawke didn’t both to hide her appraising gaze – it wasn’t often that she came face to face with a woman like herself – a woman who supposedly came from nothing and now commanded everything.

Hawke turned her piercing eyes on her friend and let her face break into a crooked smile.

“Champion of a pile of rubble and smoke, you mean?”

It was true. Kirkwall was burning in riots when she’d left. Meredith was quelled but the threat the woman presented had spread like wildfire as the mages of Thedas rose up and the Templars cracked violently down.

The Inquistor laughed and it transformed her face, the intensity of her eyes giving way to sparkling mirth. She was all sharp planes, dark leather armour and knives at her wrists, her ankles and over her back. Hawke’s smile deepened at the knives – she didn’t meet many in positions of power who so openly clung to a thief’s fighting style.

“At least you can still _see_ Kirkwall.” The Inquistor’s voice was lower than Hawke had expected. The elf put a hand on her hip and regarded Hawke. “The last city I was in charge of is buried beneath ten leagues of snow.”

Hawke crossed her arms and let her weight settle into one hip.

“And from what this mongrel tells me,” she nodded towards Varric. “You _wanted_ it that way?”

“Well,” Ellana Lavellan strode forward. “You _did_ let an ancient nutbar magister out of his eternal magic prison. So really, I’ve got you to blame.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. Champion of Kirkwall – she was a living legend but this girl showed none of the sniveling deference or awestruck rapture that Hawke met in many strangers. The Inquisitor was quite a bit shorter than Hawke, but she didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated.

“Ladies, ladies,” Varric raised two mollifying hands and tried to step between them. He couldn’t read the situation and Hawke knew he wasn’t a fan of situations he couldn’t control.

Hawke stepped even closer to the elf, looked down her nose and met those green eyes.

“If we’re going to be playing that game, I’ve heard rumours that we have _you_ to thank for that.” She nodded her head towards the subdued vortex of the Breach, luminescent even in the harsh light of day. “And for all the lovely demons that come prancing out of it.”

Lavellan’s eyes scanned her face but Hawke couldn’t read her expression. She felt Varric’s tension at her side. The elf’s face was so different from Merrill’s for all they said that the Inquisitor had walked with the Dalish. She had none of Merrill’s obvious tells and easy blushes, none of the twisting ink and patterns of ancient gods.

Finally, the elf smiled and extended her hand.

“Well then, Champion of Kirkwall, I guess we’re both a little responsible for fucking up the world.”

Hawke barked a laugh too, a genuine ripple through her torso that surprised even her. She clasped the elf’s wrist firmly.

 _Finally,_ she thought, _someone who can really understand._

They’d leaned against the battlements and talked of many things – of the Wardens and Stroud, of exactly what they’d done when she’d thought she’d killed Corypheus. Varric wandered off when they stopped showing signs of maybe killing each other, and the conversation came with unexpected ease. The Inquisitor was fast; she pushed off the wall and paced, she asked rapid-fire questions, and processed Hawke’s responses in the blink of an eye.

Only the mention of Corypheus brought a cloud over the Inquisitor’s face. It was a fresh wound, both on her body in the side she favoured slightly and in the defeated postures and tired gestures of the men and women scattered throughout the keep below them.

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” the elf said softly. Her fingers played at a bruise around her wrist, and Hawke knew the former magister had left that mark.

Hawke understood the feeling. In the Deep Roads, when Bertrand had all but left them for dead, she’d thought that she and her friends had fought every type of Darkspawn there was. When they found Corypheus, alone in the mountains, and heard the poison words that dropped from his lips, she’d felt as though the world around her changed. The rules evolving. Darkspawn that could speak and lead like men. An evil that corrupted the very order that existed to fight it.

“Stroud will help.” She reassured the elf, wishing she was as confident as she sounded. She let one gloved hand rest on Lavellan’s shoulder. The elf looked at her and Hawke realized just how young she was. “We will do this together.”

The Inquisitor smiled softly.

“Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”

The open invitation in the Inquisitor’s face. The knowledge that somehow this little elf with her intense eyes and her razor sharp smile _understood_ , knew all the same pressures of unasked-for responsibility.

Hawke wanted so badly to say yes. But Fenris was waiting at the foot of the mountain and Varric had put his neck out for her secrecy.

She looked back at the mountains beyond, and then down at her grime smeared armour.

“Maybe another time.”

The Inquisitor’s face fell and Hawke was surprised to find herself a little disappointed too. She barely knew the woman. Why should either of them care? They’d both probably be dead before the year was out – how did you fight an unkillable demon that you’d already killed?

 _No point in getting attached_ , she rationalized.

“It was good to meet the legend, Inquisitor.” She said, heading back to the wall she’d climbed just hours before. “You’re smaller than the stories make you sound. Travel sized, really.”

The elf laughed. “And you’re exactly as obnoxious as the legends make _you_ sound.”

Hawke flashed the younger woman a crooked grin.

“We’ll chat more once you’ve found Stroud.” She nodded at the elf’s hand. “You owe me a demo of that green glowy thing you do.”

Inexplicable magic that sundered gates to the fade. Fenris was going to _love_ that.

The Inquisitor let the hand with the mark settle on her hip, flashing her own cheeky grin back at Hawke.

“I’ll save you a front row seat. If you can keep up, that is.”

“I was fighting demons before you were born, elf.” She tossed one leg over the wall. “A little stick like you is just going to slow me down.”

“Spoken like an old hag who’s passed her prime.”

Hawke laughed as her fingers found handholds and she began her descent.

“Just means the demons will go for you first. Meat’s more tender.”

“I’m walking away now.” Ellana shouted after her, not bothering to look over the edge of the wall.

“Run out of clever things to say, Inquisitor?” Hawke called back up. Going down was easier than climbing up, she was happy to realize.

“Aren’t you supposed to be _sneaking_ away? You know, _silently?_ ”

Hawke just laughed and shook her head. The girl was fun. Foolish, over-eager. Painfully wanting to do the right thing.

Her smile faded. That had been Hawke once. Change the world and do what was best, all that nonsense.

But what did you do when the Arishok demanded the life of a friend who was undeniably in the wrong? When Merrill played with magics awesome beyond her comprehension, and asked for Hawke’s help with young and curious eyes? When Anders’ rage took physical form in the destruction of a building and the death of a good woman?

Her feet kept moving, automatic, as the memories overtook her.

What did you do when a city demanded to be saved at the same time that it destroyed itself? When there was no _right_ side, just a side that was maybe a little less wrong than the other?

When someone else came asking for her help anyway, even after everything she’d done. She’d left Kirkwall in flames and saved herself. But there were always more bodies, people with sad stories and broken lives, in need of fixing and leadership and answers.

She’d told herself that she was done. No more. Her help just left people dead anyway.

But the Inquisitor’s face was full of hope. Naive optimism that somehow they could win.

Hawke’s feet found the ground and she craned her neck, looking up at the sprawling fortress above her. In the shadows at the foot of the keep, she was in her element, and the guards on a distant bridge would never see her.

She clenched her hands at her sides, her face set in a steel line. One last time then. One last chance for something to end well, without flames and death and blame.

She didn’t think that they could win. But the Inquisitor and her easy laugh – there was still a chance that she could turn out different. Not like Hawke or the so-called Hero of Ferelden, another legend that fled a world that needed her one too many times.

The Inquisitor could keep her smile, maybe. Hawke turned and jumped, feet finding purchase on the stones of the mountain side.

One last try then.

_*_

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” The Seeker threw Varric to the chair, the rage that simmered in her veins threatening to boil over. Just when she was beginning to trust him. How could she have ever thought to trust him?

“You’re damned right I did.” The dwarf was unrepentant, slithered out from her grasp like the slimy eel that he was.

“You conniving little shit.” Cassandra threw a punch at his head. _Your temper, Cassandra._ The Divine’s voice played in her head but it wasn’t enough to stop her from letting out a grunt of frustration as the dwarf put a long table between them. _Your temper will always betray you. It is not a sword to be relied upon but rather an explosive, a ticking danger with a fuse you cannot see._

“You kidnapped me!” His hazel eyes were just as angry as her own, she realized. “You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

With a roar, she launched herself over the table at him, only to feel a sudden _thwack_ to the side _._ Her back hit the table top and the Inquisitor was suddenly on top of her, pinning her wrists, legs around her waist.

“Enough!”

Cassandra can’t remember if she’s ever heard Ellana yell before. In combat, certainly, but in the safety of the top floor Skyhold’s tavern, the sound is enough to give Cassandra pause. The Inquisitor’s usually easy face is set in a determined expression of disapproval, her hair falling forward over his shoulders and her eyes holding Cassandra’s with the steady intensity they always carried.

“How can you take his side?” She asks the elf, annoyed and shoving her wrist against the younger woman’s hands. The Inquisitor does not budge. Varric takes a step back from them, his face melting into the shadows of the room.

Doesn’t she see what the dwarf has cost them all? Time and lives and order sacrificed for his secret.

“I said,” the elf leaned closer, her eyes holding Cassandra’s and her voice menacing. She often forgot that the Inquisitor could be scary if she tried, effortlessly threatening to those who didn’t see the world her way. “Enough.”

Who was the elf to interfere? So much had been at stake and Varric had _promised_ her over and over that he could not help.

Suddenly angry again, Cassandra writhed, throwing the Inquisitor off. Ellana took it in stride, rolled backward off the table and landing on her feet.

“We needed _someone_ to lead this Inquisition,” the Seeker paced in front of the others. “First, Lelianna and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished.”

In the firelight, the Inquisitor’s face was hard to read. Flickering light on the sharp planes of her face. Varric’s eyes defied her still, however – no shred of guilt, no sheepishness.

“Then, we searched for Hawke but she too was gone. We thought it all connected.” She levelled her gaze on the dwarf.

“But no. It was just you, and your lies. You kept her from us.”

“The Inquisition has a leader -” Varric turned to Ellana, arms wide, but the Seeker does not let him finish.

“Hawke would have been at the Conclave. If anyone could’ve saved the Most Holy –”

And there it is. What her frustration is really about. Justinia and her damned patience. Her willingness to do what was right no matter the cost. The unfairness of _her_ being the one to die and Cassandra being the one to live and fail.

“No one could have prevented what happened at the Conclave.” Ellana’s voice is low as she steps between them.

“Varric is a liar,” Cassandra grabbed the elf’s shoulder. Couldn’t she see why this mattered?

“I was protecting my friend.” The dwarf’s interjection is emphatic. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

She feels his question in her stomach, wonders what she would’ve done if a stranger had come for Leliana. For Ellana.

“He’s a snake. Words of poison.” She steps away from them both because she cannot stand the look on Ellana’s face, the adamant refusal of Varric to accept responsibility.

“Even after the Conclave, when we needed Hawke the most you kept her a secret.” Cassandra hates herself for the way her voice is breaking. She steps up to a banister; they are on the top level of the tavern, and down below come the muted sounds of mirth and tankards on wood.

The people are tired; they want to lose themselves in drink, but after the destruction of their former home, the breakneck march through the snow and wild, they lack even the energy to do that with any real revelry.

“We’re on the same side, Seeker. Hawke’s helping us now.”

Cassandra leans her elbows on the banister and looks down at clasped hands. Would any of it be different if they’d found the Champion earlier? She glances back. Ellana, she is annoyed to see, has a hand on Varric’s shoulder. Maybe that’s why the next words that slip out of the Seeker’s lips are vitriol.

“We _all_ know what side you’re on Varric. And it will never be the Inquisition’s.”

A look of hurt flashed over the dwarf’s expression and a small part of her knew she was being unfair.

“Cassandra…” Ellana stepped towards her, always understanding, always forgiving. Damned woman. How could she extend so much of herself, over and over, after all the times that she’d been burned?

“Just go Varric.” The Seeker puts a hand to her forehead and turns from them, gazes down at the tired soldiers below. “I cannot think of what could have been.”

She hears the dwarf shuffle off, but of course he has to have the final word.

“You know what I think?” The self-defensive anger is gone from his tone. His pitch is, for once, solemn. “I think that if Hawke were at the Conclave, she’d be dead too.”

Cassandra puts a hand to her forehead. The torchlight is warm, flickering, on her face and she knows in her heart that Varric’s words are the truth.

“You people have done enough to her.”

She recognizes in his parting words the loyalty of a true friend. Of someone who sacrificed his own safety for that of another. In the dwarf, she recognizes, absurdly, the selflessness of another – of her brother, dark hair and sad eyes as he capitulated to evil men instead fighting back. Was it concern for her safety that had stayed Anthony’s hand?

She sighs and tries to let the anger go but it is so hard.

_Mind the temper and you could achieve greatness, Cassandra. Act with humility and recognize when you are in the wrong._

Justinia made it all sound so easy. Her fingers flex and unflex before her and she can feel the presence of the Herald – the Inquisitor now – lurking behind her.

Done enough to her. Varric’s words, and thus not to be trusted. But weren’t they exactly what Cassandra was thinking when Ellana fell unconscious after her first attempt at closing the Breach. What right did they have to ask strangers to sacrifice everything?

“I… believed him.” She knows Ellana will not leave until she receives an explanation. “He spun his story and I swallowed it.”

Ellana comes up to the balcony behind her, rests her elbows down on the wooden railing. She can feel the warmth from the other woman’s slight frame.

“If I had just explained what was at stake, made him understand…”

The Inquisitor reached out, those stupid fingerless gloves on her hand, and rests her fingers on Cassandra’s wrist.

“This isn’t about Hawke. Or Varric.” The elf’s voice is low.

How does she always know? Cassandra is a fool when it comes to people: Varric proved that. She trusts at the wrong time and is suspicious when suspicion is unwarranted.

Ellana, by contrast, senses when to speak and when to stay quiet. Knows how to strike the perfect balance between Cullen’s staunch need for order and Leliana’s pragmatic demands for nighttime assassinations and covert intel. Juggles the competing demands of a qunari who wants to chase down every dragon on the horizon and a power-seeking First Enchanter who takes each opportunity to bandy veiled threats and barbed compliments with pompous nobles.

“I know.” Cassandra feels the weight of realization settle over her shoulders. “I should’ve been more careful. Smarter.”

Ellana’s fingers tighten at her wrist and the elf draws near, rests a head on the taller woman’s shoulder.

“I don’t deserve to be here. I’m a fool.”

Ellana is silent for a long moment. Somehow, even the nearness of the elf helps still the swirling tempest of frustration inside the Seeker.

“Have you _seen_ the Inquisition, Cassandra?” Ellana says suddenly. “Thedas’ biggest bunch of misfits. We’re _all_ fools.”

Despite herself, Cassandra chokes out a laugh. Maybe that was true. A prim and proper Antivan roughing it in the Ferelden wilds. A spymaster who couldn't be at peace with the lives she destroys. An ex-Templar who’d served the very evil that brought Kirkwall to its knees. And the Herald’s companions too – a decidedly un-Tevinter-like mage, a rogue apostate, an anarchist elf and more. Who were the Inquisition but a bunch of cast away goods clinging to something that promised them purpose and value?

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

She can hear the smile in the elf’s voice when she replies.

“More at home, maybe.” Then, after a pause. “It makes _me_ feel better.”

She rests her head on Ellana’s. The Inquisitor’s hair is warm, like it holds the heat of the sunlight. So different from the girl who’d lay still, frozen, and pale in Cullen’s arms, pulled out of a snowbank and barely alive. The memory almost makes the Seeker gasp – it was so tangible, the fleeting potential that _she_ had let the world lose its Herald. The elf, fire and evil dancing behind her and determination in green eyes, had told them to run from Corypheus and Cassandra had run for all she was worth, never thinking to make sure Ellana followed. Which, of course, the damned elf hadn’t.

Cassandra is not an affectionate woman but there is something to be said for small moments of togetherness. She’s never truly had a friend like this before. She is grateful, thanks the Maker a thousand times, for the miracle that is the Herald’s survival.

“I want you to know,” she says as she slowly realizes what her anger at Varric could imply for the small elf that leads them. “that I have no regrets.”

“Hm?”

“Maybe if we’d found the Hero of Ferelden. Or Hawke. Maybe then the Maker would not have sent us you.”

Ellana pulls away, turns her face to look at Cassandra. Her eyes are wide with a quiet wonder and Cassandra wonders exactly what she said.

“I’m glad that He did.” Cassandra states.

Ellana laughs then, and the smile is bright on her face. Cassandra finds herself returning it.

“You’re not what I pictured.” She rests her hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder.

“More annoying, right?”

Cassandra snorts.

“Infinitely.”

“And more charming.”

“Don’t get carried away.”

“More beauteous?”

“Stop talking.”

But she doesn’t – Ellana natters on about a million inconsequential somethings. She wants new boots – the Inquisitor should have new boots, shouldn’t she? The elfroot in the region is twice as tall and even more spindly than the Hinterlands variety – she’s not sure what the new apothecary will do with it. Sera wants to bake cookies. Solas has taken up painting and added twelve obscure items to a requisition order to make his paints. Bull needs bigger quarters for all the Chargers because they insist on having three sets of gear each: “got to be ready for whatever shit your Maker throws our way,” she explains in her best Bull-voice, low and silly and it has Cassandra chuckling.

Cullen’s guard rotation has gaps the size of Antiva and Josephine is out of quills but Lelianna won’t let her near the rookery. The new cook says none of the waif-like refugee girls Ellana has sent is any good underfoot and the old quartermaster is being snarky for reasons no one understands.

A thousand concerns and most of them belonging to other people.

Cassandra lets the sound of Ellana’s voice fill her ears. It’s refreshing, she thinks, that they finally have a moment for all these little wants and needs. The Inquisition needs the rest, the moment for reflection and the opportunity to begin making not just a refuge but a home. Of course, it would be Ellana, the Inquisitor herself cataloguing all these needs.

“The responsibility,” she says, suddenly, her accented voice somehow so harsh against the ebbs and flows of Ellana’s soothing tones.

She’s interrupted the elf in the middle of a description of Dorian’s library list.

“What responsibility?”

“All of it.” Cassandra continues, wondering what she was trying to say. The words finding form only moments before they leave her lips. This was not like her – normally she is measured purpose and certainty, a prepared speech or surety of delivery. In the aftermath of her rage against Varric, she is off-kilter. “Why do you take it? Why do you listen to that greasy mageling go on about what the books that he wants?”

“Well, Dorian was a scholar long before he was a battle-mage.” She’s looking away, hands gesturing as she avoids the question. “I indulge the others, so it seems only fair that-”

“Not just Dorian. All of them. Any of them. Anyone else could listen. You are the Inquisitor now.”

Ellana sighs as if she’d know what Cassandra meant all along.

“I know.”

“Do you do it _because_ you’re the Inquisitor?” Cassandra could see the logic. The more important you were the more flattered people were when you stopped to listen. The more invested they became in the cause you represented. Josephine would approve, surely, a noble’s tactic, as astute as it was old.

But the sudden look of vulnerability on the elf’s face suggested that maybe there was more behind the Herald’s selflessness. The elf’s hands gripped the banister in front of her tightly, her green eyes looking at something far away.

“Ellana?” Somehow, Cassandra knew she’d earned the elf’s trust. That not everyone got to see her like this, unmasked with her emotions forthright on her face. After their rough beginning, Cassandra couldn’t fathom why the Inquisitor chose her.

Ellana blinked, looked down, her head listing to the side.

“It’s just easier.” She said finally, her voice heavy. “Josephine wants me to go to Halamshiral. To meet the bloody _Empress of Orlais._ ” She looked up at Cassandra. “Me? A thief and woods-wandering Dalish elf without an aristocratic bone in my body.”

“You will not be alone…” Cassandra tries to intercede, but she’s given the Inquisitor the permission to unburden and the elf won’t stop now. She turns to face Cassandra, left hand on the banister as her right gestures broadly.

“The Champion of Kirkwall herself has summoned me to Crestwood, but the reports of out of there scare the shit out of me. An entire city – gone? Dying? Mist, giant rifts and Andraste knows what.”

She starts to pace – Cassandra’s seen the nervous energy in the Inquisitor before. It comes before a battle sometimes, before a late night rendezvous for some mission or when she’s getting impatient in negotiation with some blathering noble.

“A group of our scouts went missing in the Fallow Mire, and Cullen says we’ve received a note demanding that I put myself forward as a champion and fight for their release. He doesn’t want me to do it, but I can’t just _let them die._ ”

“And the Wardens – Blackwall says that the reports are mixed, one claiming –”

Cassandra strides forward and puts a gauntleted hand on the Herald’s arm.

“Hush.”

Green eyes meet hazel and Cassandra offers the elf a smile. Ellana seems so young when her eyes are wide and worry creases her brow.

“He terrifies me, Cassandra.” She confides, dropping the taller woman’s gaze.

“Corypheus is a coward.” The Seeker says firmly, loudly. In the silence that follows, the only sound is the crackling of the torches. “He let his demons and his nightmare army do his dirty work, and fled when you made victory impossible.”

Ellana looks up again, the beginnings of hope creeping onto her face. Cassandra owes her this much; the Inquisitor needs support and confidence, now more than ever. The faded bruises on the elf’s collarbone, her wrist, testify too loudly to the Magister’s hold on her.

“You fought him back once.” She clasps Ellana’s wrists. “We’ll do so again. Together. As many times as we need to.”

Ellana swallows.

“We all get scared, Inquisitor.” The elf needs the title now. Needs to remember who and what she is. What she has already accomplished.

“You never seem scared.”

Cassandra barks a laugh.

“You watched me take my fear and frustration out on Varric.” She steps back. “We will take it out on each other when we need to, and we will persevere through each of the ordeals before us.”

“I’m just one elf, Cassandra.” Ellana is looking at her, hands loose by her sides, like she wants to believe. “Two knives and quick reflexes.”

“No.” She steps forward, needs the other woman to understand. Reaches out and grabs her arm. “You are the Inquisitor and you lead the inquisition.”

Ellana grins then, a half smile, as if she has suddenly decided that she needs to be optimistic.

“Thedas biggest band of misfits?”

Cassandra nods.

“Exactly.” She turns and begins to head for the stairs. “Whatever we were before,” she says to Ellana as the elf moves to follow her. “We are now the Inquisition.”

That seems to please the elf. She gives a determined nod.

“Now come.” Cassandra starts down the stairs. “I haven’t tossed you in the mud in a while. You need to work on that stance.”

Ellana laughs and follows her out into the sunlight.

 _Whatever we were before,_ the Seeker thinks as she draws her sword and settles easily into a dueling form.

She parries the elf’s initial thrusts with ease, knows the Herald is starting slow. Their blades meet, a clang that rings out in the courtyard, drawing curious eyes. The elf’s penchant for sparring is always amusing for the townsfolk and Blackwall saunters over, eyes ever-appraising.

_Wherever we came from. Whatever names we called ourselves once._

She smiles and suddenly steps back. The Inquisitor careens forward at the loss of resistance and Cassandra’s foot in the elf’s back helps the smaller woman into the mud.

_We are now the Inquisition._

The elf is up in an instant, a feral smile on her face. The match begins in earnest, and Cassandra is blessedly at peace.

*

_Inquisitor,_

_The Avvar told me to write to you. They say they will kill us all if you do not come._

_There are perhaps two dozen of them and they make their camp in the northeastern quadrant of the Fallow Mire. I can_ _’_ _t tell if they keep to a guard rotation or what their defenses are. We were blindfolded when captured and since then I_ _’_ _ve only seen the inside of our prison walls._

_There are eight of us. Matlock is wounded and it is beginning to fester. He will likely lose the leg._

_The Avvar want me to beg you to come. They say that you must face their leader to save us. I am weak Inquisitor because I find myself doing so. I have told the others you will come. I say it over and over just to see the hope on their faces again. Something unnatural lives in the waters of the Fallow Mire and it terrified my scouts long before the Avvar ever took us. The corpses rise up and live again. I have not seen this type of evil since the Blight._

_I do not want to die here. None of us do. I am sorry that my leadership has failed and that I led us down this path._

_I think the Maker has forsaken this unholy place._

_I am sorry Inquisitor._

_Harding_


	12. Hope

_Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed._

*

_Poor bugger._

Blackwall crossed his arms and adjusted his weight, but the stiffness in his shoulders refused to abate. He knew he was getting old – time was when he could be in his armour four days straight without feeling a thing. His Orlesian troops had teased him for it – said it was his Marcher blood that made him so much tougher, harder than their soft sensibilities and pale skin.

Before him, the Inquisitor sprung backward, just dodging outside of the Avvar’s massive axe. The weapon hit the ground with a thunk, vibrations Blackwall felt in his knees. The massive man – it was a man under all those furs and paint, no matter what he wanted you to think – let out a roar of frustration as the nimble elf danced in, set another long gash along his ribcage and then sallied out of reach again before he could free his blade from the ground that sundered around it.

Lavellan was toying with him. Sera hollered support from Blackwall’s side but the dark-haired elf didn’t appear to hear anything. She was narrow focus and silent intensity, her padded footfalls and the loud gasps of the Avvar commander the only sounds in the open courtyard.

“He can’t keep up.” Bull rumbled from the Warden’s other side and Blackwall nodded. Lavellan spun around the commander, and the giant of a man bled from a dozen small cuts. She was trying to force a yield – didn’t she know that an Avvar would rather die than accede?

“The grumpys are _pissed._ ” Sera said and she was right. The Avvar leader had expected a hulking woman, broadsword on her back and battle in her face. Instead, he got the slip of an elf, dark hair, dark eyes and dark armour. The Avvar's strength was wasted on a target he couldn't hit. He couldn’t keep up. His men around him did not interfere but under their pelts, leather and fur, their eyes were angry.

“We must stay vigilant.” He said, hand falling to the sword at his hip. “Their rules of combat say they will not intervene. But combat does not usually look like this for them.”

Bull grunted.

Sera cackled again.

“What, you mean all knifey-knife?”

He sighed. Sera was a little unstable and a little trying on the nerves, but she’d lived through Denerim during the Fifth Blight and she fought for the people who couldn’t fight for themselves. She tried to deflate the seriousness of her self-claimed mandate with ridiculous nicknames and irreverent scribbles, but Blackwall saw through that. The people Sera fought for with her Jennies and her network of cryptic clues were the same people that Blackwall had betrayed all those years ago. The ones he was trying to save now, every time he trained another of Cullen’s lads to hold his sword a bit higher, bend his knees just so.

“These people are used to battleaxes and broadswords.” He says, voice low as his eyes scan the stone fortress around them. The Avvar spectators were spread around the courtyard around them, as well as leering down from the levels above. They shifted nervously – surely they were realizing that this anti-climatic duel would only end one way – but so far they showed no signs of violence. “They’d never fight with knives like Lavallen. Probably use daggers like hers for toothpicks.”

Their own Commander hadn’t been pleased when the Inquisitor announced they were leaving to fight the Avvar. Blackwall smiled grimly at the memory.

_“You can’t possibly be entertaining this idea.”_

_The Commander was someone Blackwall could respect, always in his armour, always ready with a plan. Man had a bit of a stick up his ass for order and caution, but even that the Warden could forgive. He remembered what it was like to be the one that the men looked to for guidance._

_“Harding says they will kill them all.” Lavellan is usually so fierce but her voice now is quiet. Still firm, but Blackwall has to step closer to hear_ _her_ _. She glances over her shoulder as he approaches and throws him an appreciative smile. Their Inquisitor, brash confidence and a quick grin when she’s in the spotlight, is often so much smaller in the war room, defending her plans to her advisers._

_“You are our leader!” The blond man rarely raised his voice, but he did now, hands up and leaning in as if the sheer force of his refusal would change the Inquisitor’s mind. “We can’t have you putting your life on the line every time our enemy asks nicely.”_

_“We got her back, Cullen.” Bull steps forward too. The qunari is the only one tall enough to loom over the Commander, but the human does not look daunted._

_“Yeah. And I’ll just shoot the bugger in the eye if he tries anything sideways." Sera's voice from behind them is cheeky, as always._

_“Sera is right.” Leliana, leaning against a wall at the back of the room, intercedes. “Quick reflexes can win this battle for us. Saving Harding and her team is essential for moral, especially after Haven. We have tarried on this issue too long already.”_

_The look Cullen gives the spymaster testifies to his grief. He blames himself for Haven, Blackwall suspects._

_“See.” Sera props her hand on her hip. “Even the psychopants thinks we got this.”_

_Why had Lavellan chosen the three of them for her mission? Was it their willingness to take risks? The qunari lived for a good fight, could understand her need to duel the Avvar leader, and Sera jumped at the chance to do something just because Cullen told her should couldn’t. But what about him? What role could an old so-called Warden play in the Fallow Mire?_

_“Dirty tactics will bring the whole of the Avvar force down upon you!” Cullen threw up his hands, indignant as he turned away from them. “I can’t believe your considering this.” He levelled his gaze at Lavellan now, but she was looking down at the floor, fists tight at her sides._

_Blackwall recognized the posture. She was angry, trying to keep it in._

_Bull laughed, a bellow that echoed off the high ceiling_ _of the war room._

_“I hope they do! We’ll make mincemeat of them._ _Tasty mountain main mincemeat._ _”_

_“I have to do this, Cullen.” Lavellan looked up at the tall man now, her expression set. “I can’t let them die.”_

_The Commander held her eyes for one long moment. Then he let out a sigh, ran a hand through his hair._

_“You're the ones who made her the Inquisitor." Blackwall finds himself saying. He worries about Cullen's protectiveness. Wonders if it's simply regret for letting Lavellan face certain death once before, or if maybe there's something more to the Commander's reluctance._

_"Have a little faith, Cullen." Blackwall isn't one for the Maker, but he knows that the Commander is. Cullen just looks at them all defeated and waves his hand._

_"So be it. Just go.”_

He was so full of disappointment then, but if Cullen could see the Inquisitor now, he’d laugh. Well, maybe not laugh. Man didn’t laugh enough to begin with. But certainly his worries would fade at the sight of Ellana ducking under again to deliver a long slice to the underside of the war chief’s arm, exploiting a break in his leather armour. The hulking leader let out a frustrated roar and dropped his axe, reaching for the elf with his good arm.

A mutter ran through the Avvar ranks and Blackwall’s hand fell once more to his sword hilt.

“She has to finish this soon.” He muttered and Bull nodded.

And then, as if she’d heard his mumbled words, Lavellan did exactly that. The Avvar chief swung a gauntleted first and the elf, for once, didn’t move. She caught the blow in her shoulder, reeled back from the force of it, but her stance was flawless and she staggered only slightly. It was the one she’d practiced with him and Cassandra for hours – he’d told her time and again, _taking a blow and staying on your feet is the most important skill a soldier can learn. You won’t always be faster than them._

The Avvar let out a thrilled roar at finally landing a solid blow. He interlocked his hands and raised them up to smash down on the off-kilter elf. But suddenly, Lavellan was out of the stagger and back in motion, both hands on the hilt of one blade, her other knife somehow back in its sheath on her back. The Avvar, leaning back with his arms raised, had barely a moment to register his impending death.

The Inquisitor’s blade rammed up through the man’s chin, a fountain of blood raining forth over her two hands as she shoved her blade further and further into the Avvar’s skull.

They held the pose, locked and silent, looking then like an image ripped from an ancient myth. Lavellan’s shoulders heaved with exertion but her arms held the knife in place, uncaring of the blood that cascaded over her face. The Avvar leader, massive and dying, gagged, guttural wet noises that filled the otherwise silent yard. Then, the Inquisitor released her knife and the man stumbled backward and fell.

The Inquisitor was glowing, Blackwall realized. The green of her mark hummed gently, seemed to subsume her in an eerie almost imperceptible light. She turned to the watching Avvar and Blackwall wondered again at the improbability she represented.

A small woman, but she pulsated with a fierce energy that no mortal could deny. Drops of dark red spattered across high elven cheekbones, and a few strands of dark hair hung forward, freed from their tie in by the exertion of the duel. Her armour glistened with the blood of her dead enemy and her eyes burned, an intensity brought on by bloodlust and victory.

“Your leader is dead.”

Blackwall knew the Inquisitor. He remembered her laugh and her smile, the teasing tone her voice carried when pestered Solas, or the defiant set of her jaw when she argued with the First Enchanter. None of that gentleness showed now. She was fire and death, her voice made of the same steel as her blade.

“We can destroy you all.” She walked over to the dead war chief and ripped her blade savagely from his jaw. “Or you can release our soldiers and swear fealty to the Inquisition.”

Blackwall felt Bull and Sera tense next to him, ready to fight at the slightest provocation. Lavellan stood before them, aglow and coated in dripping scarlet.

Finally, another Avvar man stepped forward.

“It has always been our way to serve the strongest among us.” He fiddled at his belt, and Sera drew and knocked an arrow, lightning fast.

But the man’s hand came up with only a heavy iron key.

“Your friends are in there. We will trouble you no further.”

And they didn’t. The Avvar warriors stood quietly as Lavellan released the imprisoned soldiers, greeting their cries of gratitude with a grim smile. She spoke more with the Avvar, hammering out the terms of their service while Blackwall was left to attend the gaunt and weary troops.

“I knew she’d come. I knew it.” One soldier repeated the words, a tired smile on his face. The small one, Harding, helped Blackwall to charge them prisoners with action, bolstering scouts to their feet. She was a good one, that Harding. Always practical and ready and it was clear that she’d gambled everything on the Inquisitor’s rescue.

Her soldiers looked past Blackwall as he helped wrap clean bandages around wounds, spread disinfectant on one man’s rotting leg. They watched the Inquisitor with reverent expressions, whispered that they’d watched the battle through the meager cell window. The elf parlayed with the Avvar, holding a pose of effortless confidence, strong stance and crossed arms. Their dead leader's blood was caking to her face, red rivulets turned to flaky, dark warpaint. Did she know how fierce it made her look, Blackwall wonders. Perhaps it was all part of the rampant propaganda that fueled the Inquisition.

A myth in the making, the warden thought again.

That night, they camped with Harding and her scouts, finding a small bit of peace in a quiet grove well beyond the rot and evil of the Fallow Mires. They would reach Skyhold in two days, maybe three if the Inquisitor continued to insist they stop and mine every damned piece of shiny rock or pick every odd looking plant they passed.

She was brewing some of those weeds now, and Blackwall marvelled at the incongruity. Death and destruction by day and by night a worn-out woman with a culinary bent. Tea, she called it, but Blackwall had tasted her ‘tea’ before and done his best to keep from vomiting.

“Why you always got to make those nasty elvish brews?” Sera asked the Inquisitor from across the fire.

Lavellan laughed and it transformed her face, dancing and lively. She was clean now from bathing, her brown hair made darker from the damp of the water.

“I _like_ the Inquisitor’s tea.” Harding muttered.

“Gunning for a promotion, Harding?” Bull rumbled from Lavellan’s other side.

“Honestly, I do.” The little woman with her orange hair was honest to a fault. Maker knew how she stomached the brew. “She made it for me once when I was awful sick. Worked wonders.”

The Inquisitor herself just smiled and pulled her battered tea pot off the fire, pouring scalding liquid into two cups. One for herself and one for Harding, the only willing victim around the fire.

“There are dozens of teas that are possible with just a few basic herbs.” She said, resting back on one hand and rolling her shoulders. “A good friend taught how to make each one.”

“Is there a tea that gets rid of the aftertaste of the nasty first tea?” Sera said with a cackle.

Laughter and the quiet conversation moved on. Maybe the words were deliberately light, but maybe that was just what they needed. Soldiers imprisoned for weeks and a leader who’d fought for their lives. They’d earned their moment of respite, a calm before the bigger things that loomed in their future. Orlais and the missing wardens. Blackwall prayed the Inquisitor wouldn’t ask him to accompany her to Crestwood. He’d have to come up with some reason. Maybe some of her tea could put him out for a few days.

One by one, the others drifted off to guard duty or their bedrolls. But the Inquisitor stayed up, looking into the fire and Blackwall would stay as long as she remained. He’d told Cullen as they left that he’d do whatever was in his power to keep Lavellan safe.

The darkness crept in close around them. The pop and crackle of the fire was loud and overhead a panoply of stars swept out encircling them all.

_Does the Chantry have an answer for what makes the stars?_

She’d asked that on a night before the Breach, before Haven fell. Sera, Bull and Blackwall. She was avoiding the Breach then – she’d recruited the mages but wasn’t ready to act. Were the three of them her partners in procrastination, then?

He almost jumps as she rests her head on his shoulder. He hadn’t registered how close she was. Then, she answers his mind’s question.

“You never judge me, Blackwall.”

He snorts. What right would one such as he have to judge a woman like her? Lavellan was selflessness incarnate, fighting impossible odds for a chance that they might survive. A playing piece in a game whose board she could not perceive – he knew the political waters of Orlais and the simpering nobles who travelled to Skyhold put her ill at ease. Maker’s balls, the woman even made _tea_ for her troops.

“I thought you’d be more like the rest of them.” She is warm and small at his side and he adjusts, wraps an arm around her shoulders. She tenses for a moment but then settles, curls in close and he can feel that she is shivering.

The night is cold, but the cold never bothered Blackwall. Freemarcher blood, and all that he supposed.

“When we first met all you did was judge.” The elf continues, laughing softly.

He laughs then too, and his chest rumbles against her head. He is surprised at how comfortable the feeling is, the fire on their faces and a brief moment of closeness in the night.

“Any fool could see you’d the worst seat in all of Thedas.”

“Not my skills on a horse!” She says with a chuckle.

“Well, and your fighting style was all show and no sustain. Pathetic, really.”

“Blackwall.”

“Though I have to admit that green glow is something else.”

“I mean when we _first_ met!” No patience for the teasing in his tone, she has to interject. Blackwall laughs, and in the distance, he sees the whites of a guardswoman’s eyes as she peers over to them. An odd sight they must make, grizzled old man and a young elf, their leader, side-by-side.

“You were a creepy odd fellow in the woods.” Her tone was explanatory now. “I was an elf with the most ragtag crew of misfits behind me. Creators know what you must’ve thought of us.”

“You fought well.”

She snorts. “Of course that would be your first assessment.”

He was being coy, true, but he really doesn’t know what she means. It was a fateful day, Blackwall knows. The day that his whole life spun upon. But she couldn’t know how his need for redemption had fueled his actions. A chance to be something _good._ How could someone who’d done what he’d done walk away form that?

“I guess I just can’t fathom why you decided to join us.” She says after a moment of silence.

He needed to tell her. He tightened his arm and breathed in. Opened his mouth.

But then she glanced up, big, elvish eyes glassy and green and full of trust. He swallowed and the truth sunk back within him, fading beneath scar tissue and forged letters. Hers was the face of his men as he sent them to their deaths in the name of “duty”.

Because he’d run, he was less familiar with the expression of betrayal. Because he was a coward, he did not want to see that emotion now. Not on the Inquisitor’s face.

“But now, when everyone else judges,” she continued, voice so soft in the night. So blissfully oblivious to the conflict in his chest. “you support me. You call me out to spar just as Josie’s got another pompous ass lined up for pandering. You make up some crises of training that needs my attention when a war room meeting just won’t end.”

She’d noticed all those things then. He swallows, wondering if he can even explain it himself. She needed those everyday mercies. When so many people were taking so much from her, over and over again, he needed to be the one to give her those breaks.

Hadn’t they seen how beautiful her face was when she laughed? Upside, with one foot stuck in her horse’s stirrup, the Inquisitor was more at peace than ever. How could anyone deny her those inconsequential moments in between the incredible things she did?

“I knew that you could convince Cullen. With the Avvar.”

“They are foolish to not have faith in your leadership.”

She twists again but he doesn’t meet her gaze this time.

“Why do you have so much faith in me?”

Another one he couldn’t answer. How could he tell her that some part of him thought that she was the one? The person who could listen and forgive, absolve him of it all or tell him if he was truly beyond redemption. That inexplicably, the idea had arrived in his mind and he hadn’t been able to let it go. Some part of him _knew_ that one day he would be spilling his secrets for her.

“Why do you have faith in any of us?” He counters because he does not have the words for anything more than that.

Her laugh was sudden and loud compared to their hushed voices.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. We’re proper fucked up, the lot of us. Last time we dined in Skyhold, Sera put away twelve potatoes, an entire roast duck, and four different tarts. I'm not sure where any of it goes.”

“Eating habits are hardly evidence of a failing in human nature.” She replies diplomatically.

“Bull has a No Pants Fridays policy. Solas had sex with fade spirits. Cole can’t tell the difference between a beard and a mask.”

She pulls out of his arm to stare at him, incredulous.

“What? You think we don’t talk to each other when we’re not tramping around the ass end of nowhere with our beloved leader?” He tries to keep his face serious, but can’t. Her expression is just too priceless.

Blackwall starts to laugh, _really_ laugh and then she’s laughing too, proper cackles that have more than one scout glancing back at them.

 _This_ is the Lavellan that few others get to see. Eyes tearing with mirth and hair loose, wet from a recent river bathing and haphazard around her shoulders. Hands loose, no fists of rage, no knives or tripwires or smoke grenades. Blackwall hopes she will remember this version of herself when he tells her everything. He wants her to remember that he was the one who let her be herself in the middle of the night, no expectations and no demands.

He reaches out, needs her to know. One hand clasps her wrist. And she stills at the contact, lets those dark eyes focus on his face.

“We will stand with you, Lavellan.” His voice rumbles, unused to the unchecked honesty he’s exhibiting. “No matter what comes.”

The smile the Inquisitor gives him is small and sad, her eyes deep with an emotion he cannot place. She holds his gaze for a long time, but Blackwall does not let himself look away.

“Thank you, Warden Blackwall.”

The word on her tongue is like a hot brand against his ribcage and he barely contains the flinch as it drops from her lips. A title built on deceit to a woman who has shown him nothing but the truth.

He cannot speak as she nudges his arm and curls in against his chest again. She falls asleep, there, in the circle of his embrace and he holds her close and wishes the morning would never come.

He rests a chin in her soft brown hair and feels the firelight dance across his cheekbones. His eyes see nothing, and he thinks only of regret.

*

“Gemstone.” Varric loaded another bolt and sent it flying, a grimace on his face as it lodged itself firmly in a bandit’s neck.

But Ellana wasn’t listening. Instead, she dropped a smoke grenade and launched herself upward, impossibly high, so that she could land on the stone railing of the wide staircase that led up to the second level of the keep.

“She’s not listening to you.” That greasy haired Tevinter and his damned half smile – Varric had little patience for those who thought themselves more clever than himself. The tall man sent a fireball smack in the middle of the confusion the Inquisitor’s grenade had left. Gemstone, meanwhile, had hurled herself up a flight of stairs and into the ribcage of some poor bandit bugger who just couldn’t keep up with her speed.

At the top of the stairs, Bull roared, a wide swing of his axe sending the men flying.

“I don’t see what we’re doing here.” Varric said, annoyed. Load, launch, repeat. A flurry of bolts as the wannabe magister and Varric mopped up whatever fools those other two nimrods left kicking.

“What do you mean, my grumpy and diminutive friend?” Sparkler’s staff arched over Varric’s head – the damned man loved to poke fun at Varric’s stature in just about any way possible. The dwarf had to give him credit – the man persevered in the art of being irritating.

“We found the damned warden and his glorious mustache.” Another load and launch – a bolt sent blood gushing from an unsuspecting man’s throat, freezing him in his attempts to sneak up on the Inquisitor. “Pretty sure he told us that shit was going down at the Western Approach. You know. To the west.”

Another bandit in leather armours launched himself over the railing, past the Inquisitor and Bull, but Dorian had the woman zapped and burning before her feet even hit the ground.

“I thought you were one of those do-gooders.” The mage sashayed by him, a swirl of rich red robes and fizzling energy. Fenris would positively _loathe_ this man, Varric reflected.

He suspected the gloomy elf had been lurking somewhere outside the cave where they met Stroud. If Hawke was there, Fenris was sure to be nearby. In fact, he was a little hurt the elf didn’t pop out of his shadows to say hi. Keeping Hawke safe was the number one priority, sure, but didn’t over a decade of nearly-friendship warrant something?

“Stop the creepy undead.” Sparkler was still talking. “Close the gigantic rift that spews forth demons from the Fade.” He swung his staff and a jet of purple lightning sundered forth, frying a man who’d launched himself at Ellana’s back. “Sounds like the kind of thing you do, no?”

Varric grunted and hurried up the stairs after the taller man. Bull had fought his way halfway across the upper level, and the Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen. Varric knew that was a bad sign for the bandits of Caer Bronach. An invisible Inquisitor usually meant dead ruffians and blood on everything.

“Hawke’s headed for the Western Approach. The wardens are heading for the Western Approach. Minions of the nugshit crazy reborn and generally undying darkspawn ex-magister that’s threatening the world as we know it are heading for the Western Approach.” Varric grunted again as Bianca loosed another bolt. “So why are we in Crestwood?”

Sparkler was saved from answering when two men in heavy armour appeared behind them. Instead, Varric and the mage pivoted, halfway up the wide stone staircase, and made short work of the bandits.

If he had to admit it to himself, he missed fighting with Hawke. He’d hoped that after their little rendezvous in the cave, she’d fall in line next to him, and they could lay into each other like they used to. In some ways, the Inquisitor was very much like Hawke. Hardened by Kirkwall’s walls and darkness, ready banter and an easy smile. But the hope that shone so patently out of the little elf’s eyes sometimes was smothering for Varric – Hawke had long ago lost that sense of optimism.

People thought they knew the Champion of Kirkwall. Okay, so that was mostly Varric’s fault. _Tales of the Champion_ was a bestseller in every corner of Thedas. But his pen on a page led to a hero worship he’d never intended, had even worldly men like Dorian expecting something from Hawke that she simply was not.

What was happening here –Ellana killing left right and center to save a village from relentless banditry and a plague of undead – that _wasn’t_ Hawke at all. It wasn’t any of them – not himself, out for the biggest profit, or Merrill aiming to understand and learn at any cost. Not Isabella, eager for a lark and a bag of ill-gotten coins, not Fenris who had once lived only for revenge and now lived in perpetual service of that debt, bound to the women he loved. And certainly not Anders. Stupid, stupid Anders.

Aveline had been the only good one at the end of the day. Even Bethany had lashed out, was one with the rebellion that Anders had begun. Hawke had tried. To be good. Tried over and over. But when she was doing what the rest of the world saw as the right thing, Varric understood that she was actually making the selfish choice. Fight the Arishok because Isabella, lying rat that she was, managed to make Hawke smile every day. Side with Orsino because her _sister_ was one of the lives on the line. Let Anders go because if there was one thing Hawke simply couldn’t do, no matter how justified, it was killing a friend.

He knew that Hawke couldn’t have joined them. There was simply _too much_ – Hawke and Ellana shared one trait above all others. Their magnetic personalities exerted a palpable will, a sheer force that drew others in and kept them spellbound. Hawke could never be a follower and Ellana would not settle for anything less. Each day, she was more and more the Inquisitor. He’d watched Cassandra and Leliana, Josephine and Cullen, take the street-smart, defiant elf and bend her to their will, making a polished leader where once there had been only single-minded purpose and the will to survive.

He wondered if he’d see Ellana’s hope fade, the way Hawke’s had faded when her mother died. He expected to watch the optimism dim, maybe all at once or maybe one day at a time. Really, how long could someone do what the Inquisitor did and stay unchanged? Varric didn’t know if he could watch that happen, not again.

So here he was, bolt in, bolt out, and poor men who were simply trying to get by were falling dead upon the steps. Ahead, he could hear Bull roaring and he knew the qunari was in combat with some worthy foe. A man just a little bigger than the rest, dying to hold onto a scrap of turf he’d claimed as his own. What was the point?

Dammit. He was getting old, lost in his thoughts in the middle of a battle. Even Sparkler was further in than him, standing tall at the top of the stairs and building a tower of ice below Ellana’s feet to launch her easily up to the next level. Just like they’d practiced.

The practice was something he wasn’t keen on – something Hawke had damn well never done, never needed. In the long hours of their trek to whatever Maker-forsaken hole in the wall Lelianna lined up for them, the Inquisitor would make them break and run combat drills. He was too old for this shit – the elf worked them bone-tired in pursuit of her newest obsession. _Leveraging each other’s’ strengths_ , she’d called it. Ellana had even made him line a wall with crossbow bolts to see if she could use them as steps to climb up.

That gimmick still needed work, but Dorian’s ice tower was a sight to behold. Glistening in the dull light, he watched Ellana rise into the air on a frozen pedestal and flip over the edge of the third-level battlement. She found her feet on the stone and threw herself into the air, coming down on the shoulders of the giant man Bull grabbled with. The effect was pretty impressive.

Their Gemstone, fearless leader, blood and death. But a hero at heart, that honest do-the-right thing attitude that everyone thought Hawke and her team lived by.

It was nauseating. He followed Dorian up the steps. The bandits were wisely falling back – if their leader fell to Bull and the Inquisitor, they were smart enough to see that further fighting was a bad idea.

Why did she choose to make them fight here when there were bigger things on the line? Hawke could die at the Western Approach before they’d even arrived – Wardens half mad with the Calling and the threat of Corypheus’ ambiguous plans. None of that boded well for the Champion or Stroud.

Dorian and Varric made their way up the last flight of stairs, just in time to catch Ellana as she was thrown off the giant leader’s shoulders. She stumbled for a second, and Varric was startled by the sudden nearness of her. Her tanned skin was flushed with exertion, a few strands of brown hair pulled out of their tie and loose around her face. Blood on her arms, her blades, her face. She radiated an intense energy, focus and power, and he swore she was glowing green.

And then she was gone, out of Dorian’s stabilizing arm and back in the fight as Bull danced out of the man’s range and cackled as the bandit’s sword connected solidly with a supporting pillar.

The bandit leader bellowed and let the sword go, twisting in a last desperate punch at Ellana. The elf raised her knives but in that second, Varric saw his chance.

Like rapid water down a hill, Bianca was loaded, braced on his shoulder and firing.

The bolt took the man right through the left eye. His battle cry died in his throat and he hit the ground with a resounding thud.

Ellana and Bull looked over, jaws slack.

Varric cocked a grin and turned to Dorian. The mage’s staff was on his back and his arms crossed, weight in one hip.

“That’s ten royals, I believe.” The dwarf said with a smirk.

Dorian laughed. Varric remembered that he did like the man. Generally good-natured. Usually paid his debts. More fun with a few pints in him. The human fished in his pocket and deposited the coins in Varric’s outstretched palm.

“I was damn sure your sad little legs wouldn’t get you here in time.”

Varric’s hand fisted over the coins and he turned his satisfied smirk on the Inquisitor and the qunari, slinging Bianca easily onto his back.

Ellana continued to stare, green eyes wide, and then laughed.

“Come on,” she said, voice low and melodious in a way that made Varric’s fingers itch to start writing. She turned and started walking towards a small door in the side of the massive keep’s walls. “Anyone got one of those blasted flags? Cullen is going to _love_ this place.”

Curly did love the place. The next morning, they’d received word that he was sending a contingent of troops to make a permanent base in the fortress. He’d accompany them himself, but the Inquisitor didn’t want to wait. She had them down in the depths of Old Crestwood, the dam released and the water sent cascading away.

Bull tried not to get too excited about the dragon they sent skittering when they’d done that.

“A northern hunter!” The massive qunari had whooped. You’d think him a kid at his first tourney. “Lightning dragon. Fierce thing.”

The qunari cocked his head at Ellana.

“Can we boss?”

The elf’s face was pensive, blank as she held Iron Bull’s gaze and considered his words. Then, her face split into a grin and Varric felt another groan bubble up.

“When we’re done here.” They were in some Maker forsaken tunnels now, slime and ooze that had Dorian squealing like a noblewoman in her best dress.

Seriously? Varric opened his mouth to argue. They _did not have time_ to be dancing with dragons when their allies could be facing certain death, disfigurement, maiming or Andraste knows what.

But the words never came out – instead there were more demons, more crossbow bolts and more sub-human wails as demons spawned and died around them. The Crestwood rift was the biggest they’d faced, save the Breach. It took everything they had – by the time there were done, Dorian’s hair was a mess and he was ringed by dozens of empty potion vials.

Gemstone, of course, was still on her feet, bouncing out of the caverns and back to town to report her findings to the disconsolate grump of a mayor.

What they’d found instead had her gasping in horror. A part of Varric, however, was not surprised. The Mayor’s note, his choices, the decision to let all the men and women of Old Crestwood die so that the Blight would not claim them all – that was the kind of choice he’d made with Hawke a dozen times.

Mages or Templars? Isabella or the Arishok? Anders or Sebastien?

Let the Blight take them all, or consign an unlucky few to death along with the darkspawn?

Ellana was shaken by the note and the implication of the Mayor’s desperate decision. But then the clouds broke overhead and the sun shone down full and hot. Crestwood’s curse was lifting and the rift was gone. Villagers with scared eyes peeked outside of their homes and Inquisitor was in motion again, reassuring them, smiles and propaganda so that each of them would know it was the Inquisition that gave them their lives back.

She did not tell them about the Mayor. He watched as she slipped the odious man’s note in her pocket and smiled on.

They left Crestwood quickly, their only remains an Inquisition flag and the promise of order and supplies.

That night, they are at Caer Bronach and he finds the Inquisitor on an upper balcony, elbows resting on the railing. He needs to talk to her. She needs to understand the urgency of the timelines at work here.

She turns to glance at him as he walks up beside her. Varric has always been able to read people, and he sees the subtle sigh that leaves her nose as her face folds into a ready small smile. She wanted to be alone, the dwarf knows, but her sense of duty means that she will always make time for them. Her companions and her soldiers.

But she does not say anything. It has been a long day, and the Inquisitor will leave it to him to declare his purpose. He studies her, sidelong, for a moment and wonders not for the first time just how old she is. A jagged cut, shallow enough to not need stitches, adds a ferocity to her face, curves under her left eye and across her high cheekbone. Her hair is pushed behind a pointed ear and he notices for the first time that her ears are pierced, two small wooden studs where a lobe would be on a human.

The little details that make up a person. Overlooked until the quiet in between the everyday crazy that was their lives. Her hands, in leather bracers and dark fingerless gloves, are clasped in front of her. Her hair, chestnut brown and a little matted, tumbles over her shoulder on the other side of her face. She’s not a hero in this moment.

Instead, the light of the moon makes her look fragile. Wide eyes and for once she is not wearing her mask of absolute control, of confidence. Is it a sign her trust in him, Varric wonders, that she does not don that façade?

“We can’t fight the dragon tomorrow, Gemstone.” He says finally. His voice is scratchy, loud in the stillness of the air around them. Here, up so high and separated by thick wooden doors and long stone staircases, they cannot hear the hustle and bustle of Inquisition soldiers setting up camp.

“We disturbed it.” She replies evenly, looking not at him but instead at her clasped hands. The gemstone eyes for which he named her are glassy, their green still vibrant in the silver light. “Its usual feeding grounds are disrupted.”

“We have bigger problems.” He puts one hand on the railing and faces her straight on. Waits for the eye-contact she refuses to make. The Inquisitor is only a little taller than him, he realizes. Smaller than Hawke, maybe more worn down by the responsibility. “Who knows what blood magic voodoo shit Corypheus is dreaming up for the Western Approach.”

“The men and women of Crestwood finally have their homes back.” She gives in, meets his eyes and he is saddened to see that mask of control, of leadership, falling back into place. He is forcing it on her the way they all do – forcing her to be the one who makes the decisions. It’s rare that the decision is not one he supports. “You can’t expect me to leave them to become dragon food?”

He barks a laugh.

“Listen to yourself, Gemstone. You kill one dragon in the Hinterlands and close a bunch of rifts and now you think you’re their only hope in all of Thedas. These people have been fending for themselves for years before you turned up.”

Is that hurt that flashed across her face? Whatever, it’s his job to tell it like it is. It’s for the best. Really.

“We aren’t just here when it’s convenient for us, Varric.” She takes a step towards him now and he refuses to be intimidated. The gash under along her cheekbone and the threatening narrowing of the eyes would work on lesser men, but he’d gone toe to toe with far too many people in power to pay her tactics any mind. “The Inquisition is a stabilizing force. Order and safety. That’s _what we do_.”

His hands come up to gesture, his frustration taking physical form.

“That’s why we _need_ to get going. If Corypheus is using the Wardens for something, it can‘t be good. We have to stop him before it’s too late.”

“Hawke will be fine, Varric.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and he looks up into her face, shocked. Swats her hand away and takes a step back.

“Shut up.” He can’t help the words. He’s never had cause to be angry with her but suddenly he feels the rage mounting up. “Don’t pretend like you know me.”

If she is offended at his sudden defensiveness, her face doesn’t show it. Her eyes are still damanbly elf wide but they tell him nothing. Her face is calm and he is more enraged to see a softening of her expression, a look of compassion. What does she know?

“I understand what it’s like to care for someone enough to risk everything to save them.” She steps closer and reaches out, takes her one of his hands in hers. Her fingers are long, delicate, so feminine against his thick and calloused worker’s palms.

He wants to pull his hand away but something stops him. He is annoyed at these attempts at empathy. He doesn’t need empathy – he needs action. But suddenly she is letting emotions through that mask of hers and he knows that she’s telling the truth. She’s made this kind of sacrifice before.

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Hawke.” He said, finally. “Over and over again. In the Deep Roads when my nugshit brother left us to die. In the streets with a Carta knife in my back because I got too greedy in a deal. A million ways, I’d be a dead man.”

“I know.” She lets his hand slip out of hers and turns back to the railing, looking out over the rolling hills and the distant village she’d saved just earlier that day. “I wish I could be more like her.”

Varric’s sound laugh was loud in the night, and the Inquisitor glanced over, surprised.

“If you _were_ more like Hawke you’d already be at the Western Approach. You’d have said ‘fuck y’all’ to the poor sods in Crestwood and tried to beat the Wardens to the desert. You’d have trip wires set and an ambush ready.”

Ellana smiles then, a crooked mirthless grin.

“Kirkwall bred.”

“Damn right.” He forgets so easily. The Inquisitor had lived in his city. Had come out of it, hope intact. How had she done that?

Kirkwall took and took until you were nothing but cynicism and dirty tricks. He’d seen Kirkwall in the way Ellana fought, elbows and knees and hair-grabbing when it served her. He’d seen Kirkwall in the way she walked silently on cobblestone streets, disappearing in shadows and reappearing with knives. Kirkwall was in the way she bargained, fast and furious, with merchants, nobles, and just about anyone who wanted to scrap with the Inquisition.

He’d seen Kirkwall in the sadness of her eyes when she’d taken his hand. Told him she understood.

“What happened?” He said suddenly. He wasn’t used to sudden words – he was planned witticisms and ready negotiation tactics. A merchant’s skill, its own language of give and take that had a lot in common with Ruffles and her social graces. But at the end of the day, the Inquisitor disarmed him like she did for just about everyone.

She cocked her head, hair falling over her brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you knew what it was like. To give up everything for someone. What happened when you did it?”

She looks down now and he can see her fists tighten. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Around them, the wind begins to whip and Varric remembers suddenly that they are quite high up. Then:

“I was betrayed.”

Oh. He wanted to ask. If it was Hawke he would’ve. Ellana Lavellan was a friend, and he wanted to be able to say something helpful.

But he’d come up her ready for a fight and he’d given one, in his own way. It wasn’t his place to be the friend now. He couldn’t tell what she wanted from him then, downcast eyes that wouldn’t meet his own. She was fragile in the moonlight again. Small and hurt. How, he wondered again, did she hold onto her hope? Kirkwall bred like Hawke and him, but somehow _so much better._

But Hawke and Stroud were out there, still needed them.

“Do we have to fight the dragon?”

He would accept whatever she said, of course. She was the leader and he was, as always, the follower.

“Yes.” The Inquisitor didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look at him.

“And then will we go to the Western Approach?”

She sighed.

“You know, I heard your voice.”

“What?”

“When I was out there. In the snow. Half dead.” She lifts off her elbows, puts her hands on the railing in front of her and grips it tightly. Her arms are long, willowy. Elven like the rest of her, he supposes. “I almost didn’t get up.”

Varric’s throat is suddenly dry. Ellana is always bouncing back, energy and motion. In the swell and growth and safety of Skyhold, it’s easy to forget that moment after Haven when they nearly lost her.

“I wanted to be dead. Give it all up.” She laughs but it’s empty and dark. “Corypheus scared the shit out of me Varric.”

Varric opens his mouth, knows he needs to say something but he can’t find the words. Corypheus had that affect – talking darkspawn, death and blood and gore. Was scarier than Meredith had ever been, even deep in throes of red lyrium.

“But then I heard your voice. And a half dozen others.” She pulls her hands from the railing and tucks her arms in around herself. “You called me Gemstone. I heard all the different names I have.”

She looks at him and there is no hesitation in her emerald eyes.

“I had to come back. To kill the dragons, fight the wardens, close the rifts. To get to the damn Western Approach.”

“Why?” He finally finds words. He needs to understand this difference between her and Hawke and the rest of them.

She shrugs. Pulls her left hand away from her torso and curls the fingers. The eerie glow of the mark sparks into existence and he can feel the warmth of its light on his face. The sun has set long since set and the green casts unnatural lines of light along her cheekbones.

“Don’t get mad.” She tells him with a half-smile. “But I’m the only hope in all of Thedas.”

His words parroted back at him and incongruously free of arrogance.

The sigh that left Varric was a heavy one. She was right, of course. They all knew it. There was something special about her – the mark made her a better fighter, better leader than Hawke ever was. Hawke was amazing, but Ellana was legendary. Had a power unlike _anyone_ else.

Her companions, Ellana’s closest allies, all knew this. Acknowledged it silently because it was downright terrifying to admit that she could destroy them all with a flick of her wrist. Killing a dragon _would_ be easier for her than for anyone else.

“I’ll do my best to save your friend too, Varric. We’ll head for the Western Approach tomorrow night.”

His hazel eyes meet hers and he knows she is telling the truth. She adds:

“You can leave right now. You know that.” She doesn’t want him to go. He can see that on her face. But she will let him, because that’s how damnably fair she is.

That hope. He’d given up on that hope a long time ago. Some of that giving up happened before he’d even met Hawke. But he hadn’t thoroughly abandoned all pretenses of belief in a better future until his own brother left them for dead in favour of a sure profit.

Doing the right thing. Was it worth another shot? What was the point when the wiser part of him knew it was only a matter of time? Despair came for all of them, but especially for people like Ellana. Do-the-right-thingers. Make-the-hard-choicers. Naïve, foolhardy. Just too damn young.

But the Inquisitor was Kirkwall bred and once betrayed with an inconceivable hope in her eyes. A paradox he couldn’t puzzle out.

So instead, he sighed and reached up to rest a hand on the elf’s shoulder. Ended up wrapping it around her and guiding her inside.

“Of course I know.” She wasn’t Cassandra in a fit of rage. Their Inquisitor never stopped any of them from being their own person. Walking their own path.

“And of course, I’ll stay.”

As they started down the steps back to the main body of the keep, he felt her sigh in relief.

“Thank you, Varric.”

“Just be sure to kill the damned dragon pronto, okay?”

“Of course.”

“And no dallying for minerals or more blasted elfroot.”

“I promise. No dallying.”

“And you’ll ride a proper horse. Damned if I’m putting up with more of that squealing horned mongrel of yours.”

“A proper horse. Definitely.”

“Then I suppose we’re square.”

She laughed, finally, a true and genuine sound, and he felt himself smile too. It wasn’t hope – Varric had seen too much for that. But Ellana needed someone to tell it like it was, and if he left, who would do that for her?

It wasn’t hope he stayed for. Not that and not even redemption for the red lyrium. It was like he'd told the Inquisitor all those months ago when he'd watched her take on the Breach for the first time. He was a merchant through and through and she was just downright good for business.

No dragons on main roads meant more caravans. No bandits in big fortresses meant real camps and real supply routes in need of real merchants. And when they left for the Approach tomorrow, she'd get to Hawke and the others, she'd save them with her glowy thing like she always did, a walking miracle that defied death at every turn. And then she'd make all of Thedas a safer, richer place with more coin to go around for everyone. A solid business plan, if ever there was was one.

So it wasn't hope he stayed for. It was just business. That's what he told himself anyway.

_*_

_Inquisitor,_

_I understand you’re on your way back to us, having no doubt smothered another dastardly darkspawn scheme in its infancy. Congratulations on your success at the Western Approach, although I am grieved to hear of your injury._

_I confess that while I was surprised to receive a missive from you, its contents were not altogether unexpected. I’m sorry for not telling you about the Calling earlier. I suppose a part of me was never sure of its origin – I simply believed that I was dying in the way that all wardens die. I had no notion that the voices and nightmares were tied to Corypheus and the evil he wreaks._

_Knowing that, I won’t let the sick bastard get to me. I promise you my judgement will not be clouded._

_Stroud sounds a good man. I do not know him personally but any knight who takes a stand against bad orders is a man I can respect. He and the Champion have sent reports on Adamant as well. Know that preparations for siege have begun here._

_I ask that you bring me to Adamant with you. In fact, all of us wish to accompany you. We were recruited for the Inquisition to be a strength in dire times, and I can’t think of anything more dire that laying siege to an ancient impenetrable fortress that’s probably bursting at the seams with demons and blood magic. Maker help us all._

_You’ll get us through it though. You always do. Like Bull says, that’s why you’re the boss right?_

_Safe travels Inquisitor._

_Blackwall_

_PS: The dragon head you sent back is now mounted on the Wall in your throne room. Sera has made some interesting… alternations and is eagerly anticipating your reaction. The lady Montilyet does not approve._

 

 

 


	13. Loyalty

_If by my life or death I can protect you, I will._

*

“You are in my chair.”

The Inquisitor peeks up from over the top of her book. Her eyes are distant, but she blinks once, tosses her hair and puts on a cheeky smile.

“There’s a perfectly good one right there.” She nods her head at the plush velvet chair on the other side of Dorian’s tiny reading alcove. The mage isn’t impressed, sets his hands on his hips in faux annoyance.

“I’m aware of that, oh eminent Inquisitor.” Stifles a chuckle when she sticks her nose back in her book and pulls up her long legs, tucking them under herself. Elven grace, easy curving of those sharp angles. “But you’re in _my_ chair.” The high back, gilded arms and royal blue of his favourite reading chair are far superior to any other chair in the tower. Dorian knows - he tried them all.

“Suck it up, Sparkles.” She doesn’t deign to look at him this time.

He huffs and drops inelegantly into the chair across from her.

“It’s Spark _ler._ Please.”

She laughs at that and finally brings the book down from her face. Dorian rests his hands on the arms of the inferior chair and levels his gaze with hers. Big elven eyes, and green as the woods she’d come from.

“I thought you didn’t like the nickname.”

He shrugs, looks out the window. In the courtyard below, Cullen and Blackwall are drilling troops. Long lines of big men in armour but the sun glints off their metal and Dorian finds himself glancing away. He tilts his head and graces the Inquisitor with his most charming of smiles.

“It’s grown on me I suppose. Like the rest of you. Oddly akin to some sort of parasitic moss, really.”

“Foxhood maybe. Or creeping widow.”

He chuckles as she drops the names of deadly Tevinter ground-cover like items on a requisition order. Flora and fauna is a subject they are matched in, but before long they fall into their easy who-knows-more-routine.

“And here I thought you specialized not in poison but in herbs to make us all retch. You know, that rootwren you have in your tea.”

She laughed at his mention of a plant commonly fertilized with very fresh ram’s dung, and the sound of it had whispering mages glancing over to their corner. Rolling eyes, no doubt, because yes they were at it again. The giggling Inquisitor and her renegade Tevinter plaything.  He was used to being an object of their attention – whispered about until he walked over to grab a book from a nearby shelf, speculated on until they needed to consult him for some expert opinion.

“For your tea, darling, only stripweed.”

The mage crinkles his nose at her statement and glares at the elf. Of course, she would poke fun at his allergies. As if he could ever forget the morning he woke in the Hinterlands, his face a puffy mess of swollen eyes and a running nose. Definitely _not_ his most elegant moment.

“I wonder where you found the time to get so charming,” he muses, stroking his mustache in that way she loved to parody. “I mean, between swindling petty crooks in Kirkwall and braiding each other’s hair in the woods with your clan, how ever did you manage?”

The grin she throws his way is feral and she stretches her legs out, feet resting over his knees and on his thighs. This time, he is glad to see, her boots are on the ground beside her chair, mud-caked and worn with too much walking.

“Some things we simply don’t have to work for, darling.” She says in her best Vivienne voice. “Charm is one of my many natural assets.”

He snorts and leans forward, letting one hand fall to her ankle while the other picks up her book.

“Wait, wait,” she scrambles, suddenly, leaning forward and snatches the tome back but he’s already read the title.

_Collected Fragments on Foci._

“Sister Iora’s work on elven artefacts?”

He can tell by the sudden curve of her eyebrows and the way she won’t meet his gaze that this is a conversation the Inquisitor does not wish to have.

“Have you spoken to your father recently?” She says suddenly. It is tactless, and perhaps too soon after she tried to force reconciliation upon Dorian and his father at Redcliffe. The Inquisitor had been so kind. Had accompanied him and rallied him when his father threatened to do what he always did – make it about himself, explain _his_ sacrifices as if the crime he’d committed against his only son were born of noble intentions.

He is annoyed. How can she use his pain to deflect from her own?

“Ellana.” He rests his hands on her ankles, clasping them lightly. She wants to flee – he knows the elf is contemplating it, thinking of some slipshod excuse to run off though her gaze rests on the gold-gilded window. But he will not let her. Scholarship is one area where he can be of genuine use and he will do so, even if she tries to make it difficult.

The Inquisitor is still and small in the high-backed chair. The setting sunlight filters through the window pane, catching on the golden piping that spiderwebs across the glass. The shadows that fall on her face look like dancing vallaslin, the mark of her people that makes her almost more conspicuous by its absence. She is an elf without a clan, a hunter marked out for no god.

“You’re looking for answers.” He says, and for once his words tone is neutral, no mockery, no flippancy. A statement, not a question.

Ellana turns to look at him then. Her hair trips over her shoulders, shoved back from her face by an impatient hand and he notices the dark circles below her round eyes.  Is she thinner than usual, or are the sharp cheekbones normal for an elf?

Then, suddenly, she flicks her left wrist and the green light fills their nook. As always, he feels the steady pull on his soul, hears almost-present unearthly whispers, promises of power, in his brain. The mark pulls at him, beckons him closer and closer still.

“Oh, put that away dearest.” He swats a hand, aiming for a levity he doesn’t quite reach. The others in the tower are not trying to hide their stares. Every scholar worth their salt was dying to understand Ellana’s mark. She wasn’t normally so blasé with it – the curious eyes and insistent questions of the Inquisition's many scholars were a constant source of annoyance for her.

“Now is hardly the time,” he reminds her, leaning forward again to take her book. It falls open to a page she’s dog-eared and he reads aloud, if only to force his mind onto something, anything, other than the mark.

“ _The savages speak to their gods in the cave passage_.” He recites as the flickering light of Ellana’s mark dances over the pages. Did she know what the mark did to him? What it did to all of them? “ _They call it the Mouth of Echoes. They light fires and feed them with green spruce and shout their questions into the deep. They say answers come to them on the last whispered echo. Superstition, we laughed.”_

Dorian didn’t look up, but he did feel his fingers tighten as her hand formed a fist and the green light blinked out of existence. He almost gasped when he felt the mark retreat – that feeling, like a small vortex that pulled a little part of him into the Fade with it, was the always the same. Taking a little from each of them, over and over again. How much, he wondered, did it take from Ellana?

He swallowed, flipped hair out of his eyes, and tried to look as nonchalant as he wished felt, and kept reading.

 _And now Razikale is silent and madness descends_.” His tongue smoothes easily over the familiar syllables – an Old God of the Tevinters, a she-dragon once worshipped and feared in equal measures. “ _I can only think, what if? What if there are irregularities in the Veil here? What if we could secure the Avvar cave and bend it to our purposes?_ ”

“You told me that artefacts like Corypheus’ orb had a place and name in the Tevinter Imperium of old.” Ellana’s voice is low, her words almost accusatory. Gone is the mirth of their earlier banter. Why, Dorian thinks, had he pushed for this? Why broach the topic when she so clearly wanted to be left alone – what was wrong with him that he, like everyone else, had to make her face the big questions, looming fears?

“Somnaborium, you said they were called.” He glances up through his bangs and sees the elf sitting back in her chair, hands now clasping the arms and her gaze distant as she continued to stare out the window. “The vessels of dreams.”

He ignores her and keeps reading.

“ _The slaves are gathering materials. We will build a shrine to the Dragon of Mystery—implant foci into the walls, cut sacred designs into the stone, the better to hear her with. We will hear her voice again, or we will die_.”

“They built a temple to Razikale in Minrathous. It’s now the Circle Tower, I believe.” Her face turns and that heavy emerald gaze meets Dorian’s. Her head is tilted slightly to the left and her eyes are cold, distant. “Have you been there, Dorian?”

The mage swallowed again and found himself nodding. Though their postures bore the marks of their odd but implacable friendship, her feet in his lap, his hands holding her book, the friendliness was gone from her expression. He pitied, not for the first time, every enemy that was on the receiving end of her dead and calculating gaze.

“Many times, as a child especially.” He shifts in his chair, brings one hand up to his chin. “The high priest of Razikale spoke the same incantation at every Great Mystery.” He clears his throat and then speaks words he’d thought he’d forgotten:

“ _Dragon of Mystery, bestow upon your faithful servants your ineffable truth._

 _Grant us eyes to pierce the darkness and souls to bear the wounds of your labyrinth_.”

Ellana steeples her fingers in front of her. Though she looks at Dorian, her eyes do not appear to see him. When she speaks, her voice is soft.

 “They say the Razikale will be the next archdemon. Will lead the sixth Blight, a darkness more terrible than any we’ve seen before.”

Dorian finds he cannot hold Ellana’s empty gaze. His own eyes drop to the tome in front of him.

“Sister Iora says that fragment was written in blood. Found in the Frostback Basin. Why do you care, Ellana?”

“ _We will build a shrine to the Dragon of Mystery,”_ the Inquisitor quotes in response. “ _Implant foci into the walls, cut sacred designs into the stone, the better to hear her with. We will hear her voice again, or we will die_. _”_

“Superstition, surely,” he says with a dismissive wave, glancing over around them. The other mages have gone back to work, bent over tomes and whispering to each other. But in the circular space, their murmurs are carried back to Dorian and the Inquisitor, indistinct but weighty with speculation. Every now and then he catches curious glances and smiles oversweet smiles at the eavesdroppers.

“Foci like mine, I wonder?” Ellana is turning her left hand over, the one that bears the mark. He cannot see her eyes because her lids are lowered as she studies her own hand.

“Ellana, this is a scrap of gibberish no doubt written by some frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic, driven mad from loneliness and the blasted Ferelden winter.”

Dorian leans forward and grabs her hands, pulls them into his own and forces her to look at him.

He is shocked to see tears in her eyes.

“ _The better to hear her with,_ Dorian.” Her voice is small, her words a whisper.

The mage is floored. The Inquisitor, their fearless leader, their saviour who’s thrown back everything the Creators, the Maker, and the Old Gods combined could throw at her.

“No one has heard the Old Gods speak for centuries, Ellana.” His tone is soft, he needs to reassure her. A tear slips over one high cheekbone, runs down her cheek.

“Then why can I hear _him_?” her voice broke and she pulled one hand out of his to cover her mouth. Her face twisted and a sob escaped. “Why do I see him every time I close my eyes? Why does his voice play in my head over and over again?”

She was crying now, ugly and tearful and Dorian found himself shaking. The Inquisitor, broken, in front of him. He did the only thing he could think of.

“Hush, here now.” He pulled her over, onto his lap and into his arms, wrapped his arms tight around her. He’d never held a woman like this, tears and shaking shoulders, a small frame bent against the world.

“The vessel of dreams,” her mumbled voice broke against his neck. “I see him in my _sleep_ , Dorian. He wants the mark. He’s so _angry_.”

“Of course he’s angry,” he says into her hair, running his hand down her back because he truly doesn’t know what to do. This was not who he was – offering comfort, asking for nothing in return. But didn’t she see that she wasn’t the one that needed to be afraid? Corypheus was a nuisance, certainly, but _she_ was _unstoppable._ “You’ve thwarted an evil plot centuries in the making. An impressive feat for someone so small, really.”

She hiccups a laugh against his neck but she’s still crying.

“He is a _living god_.” She curls even tighter against him and Dorian is beginning to realize that everyone in the tower is staring. “He _destroys_ me over and over again. In my dreams. It must be the mark that lets him in.”

Suddenly, Dorian knows they need to be somewhere else. As much as he scorns the intricacies of the Game, the nuances of politicking, he knows that the sight of their fearless leader in tears in the lap of unabashedly fabulous Tevinter mage is gossip that’s just too delicious to resist. So his arm still around the Inquisitor he stands, forcing her on her feet.

She sniffs, wipes an eye and blinks up at him. He forgets how short she is sometimes.

“Come,” he says loudly, for the benefit of all those watching eyes. “Sir Morris needed that iron today, isn’t that so?”

She’s staring at him with wide elven eyes, red-rimmed and confused. But she nods and that’s all he needs. Dorian grabs her hand and strides purposefully out of the room.

 _Let them think what they will_ , he decides, annoyed. Couldn’t they see how all of their requests, their millions of ceaseless small need and wants, took their toll on the Inquisitor?

Even his own personal favours, asking her to be with him at Redcliffe. How readily Ellana had agreed, he thinks with a backward glance as the uncharacteristically meek elf that trailed behind him. He hadn’t once considered that his request, a family reconciliation that honestly had him quaking in his supple leather boots, was probably one of eight things she was getting done that day.

He guides her through Solas’ atrium, ignoring the man’s questioning glance over his shoulder at them. Maker knew what the elf was painting, long strokes and vibrant colours that were a little too ominous for Dorian’s taste.

Dorian pulls the Inquisitor, still holding onto her hand, through the great hall, deftly side-stepping Cullen and privately thankful for Josephine’s quick assessment of the situation.

“Give them a moment, Commander,” the Antivan tells the handsome blond with a hand on his arm.

And then they are up the stairs and in Ellana’s chamber, the one place in all of Skyhold where no one will interrupt the Inquisitor without explicit permission. Where no one will watch and whisper about her conduct, and where no one will openly confront her about her decisions.

He leads her over to her bed and sits her down. Pulls a chair over and sits across from her. Reaches out and lifts her chin so she is meeting his eyes. Feels his heart wrench at the sight of her defeated face, red-rimmed eyes and dark circles.

“Listen, Inquisitor.” She needs to remember who she is, what she’s already accomplished. “I know little of the ancient magics of the elves, but I suppose that it is possible that somehow, your mark links you to Corypheus.”

She swallows. He watches her throat bob before his eyes find her face again.

“He tried to use the orb as a foci for his magic. To channel and empower it. You somehow took a part of that – whatever happened at the Conclave left you with a part of his channel and with the power that comes with it.”

Ellana nods slowly. Dorian sees that he’s gaining ground. Needs to push further. He reaches forward, pushes hair out of her face and behind her ear. His fingers curl against her neck and he needs her to understand the intensity of his belief.

“But remember this – that link exists because you _disrupted_ his plan. Whatever evils Corypheus sought, you made it _impossible_ for him to achieve his ends. You’ve taken some of the power he tried to use for yourself.”

Dorian’s hand falls from her head, take her hands again instead. The elven fingers are slim, small and pale against his own tanned skin.

“You are _stronger than him,_ Ellana.”

The elf swallows again and finally, finally, tries to smile at him.

“Thank you Dorian.”

“Perhaps you are connected. He will try to exploit that. Try to intimidate you in dreams. To taunt you when you use the mark.”

She is nodding slowly. When she speaks, her voice is low and quiet.

“I hear him mocking me. He calls me nothing. A thief.”

Dorian smiles crookedly.

“Well, we already that about you.”

She chuckles quietly and he is heartened to hear it.

“Now, let me be honest with you.”

The smile stays on her face and she pulls his hands out of his, brings her legs up and tucks them under her. Her bed is huge, almost comically so given that she’s so small. Varric liked to make fun of it, said it left plenty of room for entertaining.

“This should be good,” she replies, expectant.

He grins and crosses his arms, leans back in his chair and delivers:

“You look like shit, dearest.”

She laughs and it is good to see the smile on her tired face.

“Well excuse me if cleaning up the Creators-damned world doesn’t leave me much time for maintenance.”

“You don’t see it stopping me from looking fabulous.” He replies, with a coy brush at his hair.

“Oh, is that what they’re calling that look? And here I thought you were going for the ‘Orlesian Tapestry’ effect. All style, no substance.”

He kicked her gently, but let her have the win.

“Let me do something for you, Inquisitor.” There is still a smile in his words, but he is serious.

She raises an eyebrow.

“And here I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Not that, stupid. Let me cast a spell on you.”

“Oh,” she replies, a sly smile on her lips. “Is that what you call it when you were seducing that handsome bartender lad at the Crossroads?”

He scoffs.

“Now, now Ellana. You _know_ you’re not my type.”

“And oh how the regret keeps me up at night.”

He grins but he raises a hand to stop her from responding.

“As it should. But in all seriousness. Let me do this for you.” He lifts both hands and feels the quiet blue hum of his magic coming to life. It’s like breathing to him, to summon it forward, bend it to his will.

“You need to rest, Ellana.” He lifts an eyebrow. “You look like shit. Can’t have this dishevelled mess on all the Inquisition recruitment posters.”

“I’d be more offended if you weren’t so right.” She leans on one arm, eyes watching his hands warily.

“I can give you a dreamless sleep. You’ll be more rested than you’ve been in weeks.”

Emerald eyes meet his and he is a saddened at how hopeful she looks at the prospect.

“You can do that?”

He nods.

“Easiest spell in the book, Gemstone.”

She tilts her head again.

“Let me show you,” he says, insistent.

“It’s the middle of the day.”

“Do I have to remind you just how shitty you’re looking?”

She laughs and lies back.

“Okay, okay.”

Silence and he lets the spell stream forward from his fingers. Whitish blue light that runs across her temple, over her shoulder, down her torso.

“This isn’t weird for you?”

“Stop talking, Ellana.”

“But what if…”

But the words die before she has time to finish. The sleeping spell is a simple one, and fast working. Dorian had perfected it long ago though it always worked better on others than on himself.

Ellana’s head rested lightly on her pillow, chestnut hair across her face. Dorian stands and studies her for a moment. Silly girl didn’t even pull a blanket over herself. He unfolds the heavy Ferelden comforter at the foot of the bed and drapes it over her small frame. Her face, he is pleased to see, is still, her brow smooth and unbound from the worries that mark each of her days.

Dorian smiles softly and turns away from the sleeping elf. He wanders over to the large oak desk – her one real indulgence in all of Vivenne’s shopping for Skyhold furnishings. It is an ornate and intricate piece of woodwork, scrolling elven patterns and a large surface where she’s scattered a dozen different books and scrolls, seemingly halfway through each one.

He sits in her writing chair and looks about. A quill rests on a half-finished report on the Western Approach and beneath that is Cullen’s summary of the intel Hawke and Stroud provided on Adamant. They will march on her command and that command will come soon, Dorian knows.

The mage’s gaze moves on, and his mouth slips into a smirk as he sees the entire collection of Varric’s tawdry novels stacked against the side of the desk, tucked away as if she didn’t want anyone to see.

He spots a familiar worn journal and is reaching for it before his mind can even contemplate whether or not he should. He’s done a good thing for Ellana – surely she wouldn’t mind if he took another peek at her drawings.

There are so many, he reflects as he opens the leather book and flips through. Sera with crumbs on her face and a tray of lumps in front of her – cookies, he suspects. Leliana with a rare and beautiful smile on her face, an outline that might be Cullen shrugging helplessly next to her.

But he finds what he’s looking for on the next page and he feels the gasp stop in his throat.

It’s his father and him. The old man not angry as Dorian remembered from Redcliffe, but instead wearing slumped shoulders and an expression that is regret personified. Dorian traces his ringed fingers over the charcoal, feeling the black smudge gently against calloused fingertips. His own face is the angry one – Ellana has captured his eyes with an intensity he never knew they had. His eyebrows are bent in unattractive rage and his mouth is open with an accusation he can still remember.

_Blood magic, father! Am I so broken that it takes a pact with demons themselves to make me whole again? To make me more your son?_

He feels himself inhale sharply and his hands are shaking. He drops the journal on her desk but cannot close it, cannot look away. Below the image, Ellana’s small cursive spells out familiar words.

 _Words winding,_ she writes. _Wanting, wounding. You said I could ask. It’s all tangled with love._

Cole’s words. _You said I could ask_. He’d wanted to be an open slate for the hopeless spirit boy but he hadn’t realized how much of himself he had to bare to do so. If Dorian had known, he’d never have offered – he was prepared to help so long as it didn’t involve airing absolutely every dark secret that lingered somewhere in his mind.

He’d been a fool to assume Cole would need anything less.

 _“You hold on to him so tightly,”_ the damned spirit had said. “ _You let it keep hurting because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?”_

_They were walking through a ramshackle fortress, long abandoned by people and time, and Cole’s words echoed embarrassingly loud for all to hear. As always, Dorian tried to shrug it off, hoping his lightness would dispel the ache that Cole’s words lodged around his heart._

_“Can someone tell him to stop?” Dorian said to no one in particular._ “ _You know, banish him back to the Fade or something?”_

_Ellana answered after a long moment of silence._

_“Cole wants to help, Dorian. Maybe you should let him.”_

The mage ran his fingers over Ellana’s drawing again. Glanced back at her sleeping figure on the bed. It was hard to let others help sometimes. She understood that. At the time, he couldn’t let Cole of all people in – he’d said something pithy and stalked off until his embarrassment abated.

He tried to tell Cole later, when they were alone by a stream.

_“Sometimes the ones you love are also the ones who disappoint you the most, Cole. You think that if they love you, they should understand. They shouldn’t want to hurt you.”_

_Once the words started, they kept pouring out._

_“But when they do, you feel betrayed. And you say things you can’t ever take back.”_

_Cole_ _,_ _of course_ _,_ _had understood. Better than anyone else in all of Thedas could have understood. Guess the reading minds gimmick made all the difference._

_“Get out.” Cole had said in a voice that was so perfectly the Magister Halward Pavus that it had Dorian glancing around for his father. “You are no son of mine.”_

_He watched Cole for a long moment – the stickish boy in his too large hat, staring distantly over the creek they stood by._

_“Yes,” the mage said finally, defeated. “Like that.”_

_Cole looked over and met his eyes, milky blue on deep hazel and so serious._

_“He wishes he hadn’t meant it.”_

_Dorian can’t help the strangled noise that constricts his throat._

He shakes himself out of the memory and scans Ellana’s drawing again. His father, wearing regret, and his own face so full of rage.

The mage lets a long breath out of his nose. Behind him, the Inquisitor whimpers softly in her sleep, but he knows she is not dreaming. Seeing only sweet blackness.

His hand tightens into a fist over her drawing but he understands now, between Cole’s words and what Ellana had captured in his father’s face, that he cannot continue to be so angry. That his rage will purchase nothing and that his father’s actions, sealed by time, are at least looked back upon with regret.

His father’s good opinion had mattered more than anything else in the world. Even after he’d left, went to study with Alexius.

But now, Dorian realized, there was more. From Ellana and her cause, he’d gained something that mattered more, something to focus on so that he could let the rage fizzle away. After all those years of being useless, he had something to give that other’s needed.

In the days that followed, if their companions noticed that Ellana kept Dorian closer than usual, they said nothing. Didn’t comment on the fact that every night before she slept, he’d linger nearby in case she needed him. A little magic brought the happy sight of clear skin beneath her eyes and he was secretly so pleased that they shared something that only he could give her.

When Ellana gives the order to march on Adamant a few days later, Dorian is not surprised.

“Hey,” she calls out to him as he’s stuffing his pack with reading material for the undoubtedly tedious ride ahead. “I have to ask you something. Since I’m going to be leading the charge and all.”

Dorian straightens up and turns to face her. The Ellana before him now is bright-eyes and braided hair, standing tall in full black leather armour, her wicked knives strapped to her back and jutting out above her shoulders. She is fierce, shadows and death, their leader.

But when she cocks her head to the side and a few strands of hair fall over her brow, she gives him a grin that reminds him that above all else, they are friends.

“Do I still look like shit?”

He barks a laugh.

“No, your Inquisitorialness. You look like majesty.”

“Excellent.” She throws him a smile and he knows that it means ‘thank you’.

“Now get your sorry Tevinter ass moving.” She’s turning, walking away and she shouts the words over her shoulders, uncaring of the quiet productivity of the scholars around her. “We’ve got to beat the pack of nobles Josie drummed up out of the gate or we’ll be stuck behind caravans all morning.”

“Anything for you, fearless leader.” He says, and the best part is that he knows he means it.

*

_Elhan,_

_I am sorry to hear of the Clan’s trouble with Wycome and I am glad you wrote to me for help. I will join you when I can. The Inquisition has resources that may be of use to you and_ _for now_ _I have sent those that I can spare. I pray that we will not be too late and I am grieved that I cannot be with them._

_But right now, a more immediate threat weighs on us all. There is an evil behind these rifts, the mark on my hand, the demons_ _across_ _Thedas. I have seen this evil and nearly lost my life to him. We leave to fight him tomorrow and I cannot be delayed. I’m sorry brother._

_I will probably die. It’s easy to write the words. Harder to think on what they mean. You would balk if you knew how many people I’ve killed now Elhan. Sometimes I feel like their blood is still there, in my hair, on my arms no matter how many times I wash. I stabbed a man through his jaw and into his skull a fortnight past and Elhan I think I enjoyed it. I wonder what father would say if he could see me now. The Creators would spurn me for the unnatural creature I’ve become._

_I know you will say that it is father who put me on this path, but it wasn’t. I could’ve left Kirkwall at any time, made my way back to you and Keeper Deshanna. I was the one who chose not to, who chose to stay with the Inquisition._

_I can’t remember if I told you that they made me Inquisitor. You’ve probably heard. I’m still not used to walking into a village I’ve never been_ _to_ _and meeting people who know my name and my exploits. Or think they know them anyway. I am a leader now Elhan, your little sister who always followed where you ran._

_For that reason my loyalty has to be to the Inquisition before it is to you. I hope you understand. Corypheus, the demon we fight, has to be stopped and somehow I’ve become the one who has to spearhead the charge to do it._

_I am so scared Elhan. I gave a speech to our troops today and I’ll have to give another one be_ _fore we lay siege to Adamant, an ancient_ _fortress that has never before fallen in battle. When I have to find words, lie to them all so they don’t know how scared I am, I think of father. And I think of you. Hunters and leaders. Father was always quiet and strong, but your righteousness is what helps me most. You refused to play father’s game because you didn’t think it was right._

_I hope then that you will_ _realize_ _that I have to do what’s right here too. I’m worried for you and the Clan, but Corypheus will sacrifice hundreds of lives to raise a demon army and conquer Thedas. I hate that I have to weigh my troubles on a scale, determine which is the most dire, but that’s what being the Inquisitor requires._

_I am all excuses today. Forgive me. My hands are shaking and I can’t stop writing. You don’t need more of my selfish justifications._

_I’m sorry Elhan. I promise that if I survive Adamant, I will come for you._

_Ellana_

*

It was no secret that Fenris had little use for magic. He thought about this as he trailblazed his way up a narrow stone staircase, checking the massive swing of his broad sword so that he didn’t throw himself off balance and tumble down the stairs. Behind him, he heard Hawke _laughing._ Of course she was laughing.

It was no secret Fenris wasn’t fond of magic, and blood magic he had absolutely zero tolerance for. These wardens and their demons – it was like Anders and Justice all over again. Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify their decisions, but it never mattered. It was like Hawke always said: in the end you are always alone with your actions.

 _They had their reasons_ , Stroud claimed at the Western Approach. Or so Hawke had told him – as Fenris took the steps into Adamant Fortress two at a time, bringing his blade down and sundering some lesser demon out of existence, he felt his neck bristle again at the memory of Hawke telling him to stay behind.

_“You’d hate the desert, dearest.” She told him with that playful grin that made him growl. “Sand in all the wrong places.” The Champion ran down his breastplate, blue eyes musing. “Can’t have it in all these cracks, right?” She peered up at him as her fingers settled in a rift between the two central plates of his armour._

_“You’re insufferable,” he told her, determined not to rise to her game._

_She laughed and flipped her hair back. There was nothing like Hawke when she was laughing; alive, a full bodied sound that made his sullenness inexcusable._

_“Besides,” she said with a deft twist of her hand. “I need you here.”_

_“Now, Hawke?” He put a hand on his hip and raised an eyebrow._

_“Not like that,” she told him with a narrowing of her eyes though her smile didn’t fade. “I want you to watch over these folks,” she nodded to the massive keep that loomed behind them. Skyhold, the inexplicable secret fortress where the Inquisition made their home._

_“I want you to watch them. I trust Varric but the advisers, the other companions, who knows? Why do they have a warden in their midst if what Stroud says about the calling is true?”_

_Fenris sighed and crossed his arms._

_“Always so suspicious, Hawke.”_

_She’s preparing to leave, he realizes as she stuffed her pack full of a dozen sundries that only Hawke could think of uses for – dried entroot, five yards of black cable, an ice pick._

_“It’s what’s kept us alive all these years, ain’t it?”_

_He secretly loves when she slips in the colloquialisms, Old Hawke, he called it back when they’d all lounged around The Hanged Man and she’d had one too many. Hawke when she was just Hawke, before she became the Champion, saviour of the city, liaison to nobility and attempted peace-broker between warring factions._

_Fenris wants to reach out and pull her to him. But he knew he had to let her go, let her brave the Approach on her own because this was Hawke after all, and the one thing she could never do is do what she was told._

He is thankful, as his blade finds purchase in an unlucky warden soldier, that she was not foolish enough to forbid him to Adamant. But then he is cursing again as Hawke leaps over his bent back, landing squarely in the middle of three soldiers.

She straightens with a feral grin and his is reminded of all the reasons he loves her.

The Champion of Kirkwall is leather armour and long knives that she flips with a speed his elven eyes cannot follow. She spins and one man is already dead, her tattered scarf a scarlet pennant in the wind around her as she dives at another soldier. He'd called the scarf a liability a hundred times across the years of their friendship, but she'd grinned that Hawke grin and told him she was nothing without a little style, a trademarked image of waving red silk and knives for her enemies to remember.

Hawke’s blades are like extensions of herself, and though he’s always chided her for her recklessness in battle, he’s also known that landing a blow on the woman was near impossible for most.

The wardens are dying in warm pools of blood before even as he ascends the final steps to join her on the battlement.

“Must you always be so dramatic?” His tone is dry. They always made time for a little chatter when deep in the thick of battle.

“Coming from the six foot tall _glowing elf_ with a blade the size of Orlais.” She retorts, her grin made more savage by the blood that’s splattered across her pale skin.

"Hawke. This is hardly the place to comment on the size of my blade."

She cackles and nods down into the courtyard below.

“The Inquisitor is in. Looks like Cullen has sent her to clear the battlements.”

Hawke is already starting to move again, a light jog that he knows will give way to an all-out sprint.

“And here I thought that’s what _we_ were doing,” Fenris replies drily.

“Well come on then,” Hawke yells over her shoulder as he groans and takes off after her. Easy for her to say in her leathers, not laden with four stones of metal armour and gear like he was. “Can’t let her beat us to it.”

They continue to fight, and Fenris can feel the lyrium light up his skin. His glow gives his enemies pause, and resent the marks though he does, he is not above taking advantage of that brief hesitation in his foes. Often, they are dead before they can even recover.

His is distantly aware of the Inquisitor and her companions making headway on the battlement across from them. His is not surprised to see her fighting to secure the walls so that her troops can enter, instead of pushing further into the keep. His spying at Skyhold had taught him little except that that Inquisitor is well-loved, said to value the lives of her soldiers. Some whispered of a daring rescue and a duel against an Avvar warlord. Others spoke of the dragons she’d slain, evidence of which loomed ominously over the throne in their great hall.

Fenris recognized the signs of devotion and myth-making. He’d lived through that all before in his service to Hawke. He wondered at the truth behind the whispers – the Inquisitor was such a small thing, an elf with no markings. But Hawke seemed to approve of her, and that was enough for him.

As he fought, he scanned the area around the Champion constantly. Hawke could lose herself in battle sometimes, and that left her oblivious to new opponents and sneak attacks. Fenris made sure that none of those ever reached her, and though she danced around him with a stamina he couldn’t hope to match, he knew that Hawke was tiring too.

And when the ground below the Champion exploded, he realized they might really be in some trouble.

The pride demon that surged forth was an ugly thing, bulging veins and a cascading purple whip that zipped too close to his head. Fenris jumped back and fell into a defensive stance in front of Hawke as the woman groggily got back on her feet.

“Just like old times.” He yelled back at her, desperate for her to respond. _Be alert, be ready._ They’d blazed forward ahead of Cullen’s troops and Stroud was somewhere distant, claiming another battlement for the Inquisition. It was only him and Hawke and the demon.

“Which old time?” He hears her answer as she pushes herself up from the ground. Though her voice is hoarse he’s relieved to hear a teasing tone to her words. “When Bartrand left us for dead in the Deep Roads? Or when you demonstrated your enduring loyalty to me in the Fade?”

Fenris barks a laugh, sinking lower into his stance as the demon growls and turns on him. When you fight a pride demon, you always let it move first. It was slow and lumbering, and if your reflexes were good enough, you could often hit it in that moment after it raised an arm to strike.

“There are too many demons in our past, Hawke.”

“I’ll say,” she comments and then she’s on his back and leaping off his shoulders and up into the air.

“Dammit woman!” She was never one for patience.

The Champion landed on the demon’s back, sliced twice at its shoulders and neck and then launched herself away. The creature roared, an unearthly sound that shook the ground below their feet, and Fenris swung his blade.

Hawke danced around the demon, feinting in and out and keeping it distracted while Fenris could wail away at its hamstrings. This strategy was as old as time to them, and maybe that’s what made him careless. He missed it when Hawke leaped closer and the demon ignored her, turning to face Fenris instead. Fenris, caught mid-swing, couldn’t stop his blade in time to dodge the pride demon’s massive fist. The fist connected square with his chest and sent him skittering, metal and scraping sounds across the stone surface of the battlement.

For a moment, blackness threatened to claim him.

 _No,_ he thought fiercely, feeling his marks alight as he fought to hold onto consciousness. Was it just his addled head or had someone appeared before him?

“Well," a voice sounded, low and feminine. His vision swam but if he squinted, he could make out two dark boots just in front of him. “Looks like we got here just in time.”

Fenris groaned and rolled onto his back, forcing his eyes to focus. Above him stood an elf in dark leather, brown hair pulled back from her face in a series of thin braids. Like Hawke, her face was splattered with blood, two wicked curving knives at her side.

The Inquisitor.

The demon didn’t last much longer. Fenris was rather embarrassed that he spent the rest of the fight nursing his head on the sidelines and trying to encourage the dents out of his plate mail.

“Don’t worry Broody,” Damnable Varric was at his side, loading and unloading his crossbow with the ease of an Antivan noble sipping coffee on a balcony in the summer. Classic Varric, working too hard to make everything look easy. “I’m sure you’d have been fine without us.”

“Shut up dwarf.” He growled in response. His standard Varric-reply.

“Eloquent as ever, I see.” Varric’s hand moved lightning fast, up to his quiver and down to his crossbow. “It must be your astute conversational abilities that our Champion finds so endearing.”

He grunted in reply, uncaring of the irony that made Varric grin. He was happy to remain seated on a crate next to the dwarf – the others clearly needed no help with the fight. To be fair, the Inquisitor and her team had numbers on their side.

The elf woman had not one but _two_ mages behind her, another elf and that Tevinter magister that made Fenris’ blood boil. An awkward teenager with knives and a too-big hat stood near the edge of the battlement, shouting words to the others. The Seeker woman and the so-called warden braced in front of the demon, soaking up its blows on their shields while Hawke and Ellana brought it down with a dozen little strikes.

As one last flurry of lightning engulfed it, the demon shuddered and fell. Over its corpse, the Champion and Inquisitor grinned at each other.

“I think they’re more alike than they realize,” Varric muttered, swinging Bianca onto his back and Fenris couldn’t help but nod.

“We’re going to find Clarel. Stroud said it was this way.” Ellana nodded to a set of stairs that led deeper into the fortress. The elf turned and leveled her gaze with Hawke. “Can you keep the demons off my troops?”

Hawke shook her head.

“Nonsense. Your men are fine. You bought them a foothold and Cullen is leading them.”

Fenris felt his heart sink. He knew what she was going to say. It was classic Hawke: the more dangerous, the more she needed to be there. _Why does it always have to be you?_ He must have asked her a dozen times.

“We’re going with you.”

Fenris sighed and fell in line behind the Inquisitor and her team.

“Cheer up Broody.” Varric was still at his side, bringing up the rear. “The safest place to be is usually right smack dab next to the Inquisitor. Have you _seen_ that thing she does with her hand?”

He _had_ seen it on their march to Adamant and it made him feel sick to his stomach. The green of the elf’s hands pulled at the lyrium in Fenris’ skin; he felt it come alive when Ellana activated her mark, felt like the lines of magic wanted to jump right out of his flesh.

Damnable, blasted magic. He couldn’t escape it no matter how far he ran. Clarel was the perfect example – someone who had years of training and a centuries old legacy behind her to ensure that she _should have known better._ But when they found her in the courtyard, presiding over her legion of brainwashed wardens, warden commander Clarel proved she was no better than the rest. Everyone was an Anders when push came to shove it seemed. She butchered another warden before them all and it took Erimond summoning a blasted _archdemon_ to make the woman see sense. Of course, she was a mage too.

Fenris pushed up until he was next to Hawke for the fight in the courtyard, but he could tell that both she and the Inquisitor were eager to be done with the demons here, itching to follow Clarel and Erimond through the massive wooden doors at the far end of the courtyard.

Well, if that was what Hawke wanted, that was what Hawke would get.

Fenris set his sights on the rage demon between the two women and the door and launched himself into battle. He lit his marks up, alive with the sick and deadly energy he hated so much, and reached a hand into the chest of the flaming demon. His fingers tightened around the orb at the center of the creature, and with a yell he wrenched backward, pulling the rage demon’s “heart” along with him.

The demon shuddered once and then dissipated.

He looked over his shoulder.

Ellana and Hawke stood, identical expressions of surprise on their face.

“What?” He asked, revelling briefly in their shock. “He was in your way.”

Hawke laughed but Ellana’s expression was static. He decides there’s time for one more jibe.

“You’re not the only one with glowing powers and hands of death, Inquisitor.”

She tilts her head and studies him and Fenris realizes this is the first time they have really spoken.

“You’ll have to tell me more later.” She says, tone thoughtful, and then she is striding forward, past him again. A small elf for so much might. Her arms are soaked in blood, her blades sharp and evil in her hands.

 _I’ll do no such thing._ He thinks after the Inquisitor, falling in just behind Hawke. Stroud, he is pleased to see, is at their side. Stroud is a good man. Does not demand things of Hawke the way everyone else does.

 _After today Hawke and I are gone. Off to be somewhere free of all this. Maybe we’ll finally find some quiet. Put our feet up and take some easy jobs for people who really need it._ He feels himself almost smiling at the thought.

But then they are out in the courtyard and the archdemon is back, its cataclysmic wings buffeting them away. The Inquisitor’s troops scatter in the wake of the fire the dragon breathes. The dragon snatches Clarel up like a rag doll – the foolish warden leader doesn’t even have time to scream. Fenris, even after all the death he’s seen, felt a ripple of shock as the demon made mincemeat of the woman.

 _At least dragons are better than magic_ , Fenris thinks grimly as he settles into a battle stance and the archdemon lands. The Inquisitor widens her stance in front of him and he can see that she and Hawke are preparing to fight. Mark or no mark, this battle will be dire. Even Hawke and he have never fought a demon like this.

The dragon is glistening terror, its scales reflecting the light of their magic, of the brewing storm above, and of the torches that line the bridge. Its black eyes are endless and its teeth are slick with the blood of the warden commander who crawls feebly between its feet.

When it roars, Fenris feels his heart lurch. It has been many years since he has known fear for his own safety – the need to protect Hawke had long supplanted that – but today, in the face of the sheer vastness of the archdemon, he admits that there is a slight tremble in his knees. His is impressed to see the Inquisitor’s companions form up behind her – both mages and even the teenage boy stand at the ready. Blackwall, the warden of whom Fenris could learn very little, and the Seeker Cassandra who interrogated Varric so harshly, stand staunch next to the little elf that leads them. Others fan out behind Fenris, having finally fought their way through the courtyard and onto the bridge.

They are prepared to fight and die. At Hawke’s side, Fenris has made this choice so many times before. It seems unfair that the universe continues to demand it from Hawke, but Fenris learned long ago that fairness had no say in the court of everyday life.

They are prepared for a fight that never comes. The warden commander spares and dooms them all in equal measure; her lightning sends the dragon sideways and up, splinters the bridge on which they all stand and suddenly they need to run.

Blocks crumble beneath his feet and Fenris is desperate for purchase. Hawke is just a step or two behind him. Fenris sees her reach out to steady Varric but he spies over her shoulder that the Inquisitor is stooped to help her friend, Solas, over the ledge.

Hawke glances back and sees the Inquisitor too. The stones beneath the elf begin to give way.

Hawke looks forward again and meets Fenris’ eyes. The electric blue of her gaze is determined and he can feel himself speaking before he even knows what he will say.

“No. Hawke. Don’t.”

Hawke is too far. He cannot reach her in time. She will be too late for Ellana. Why does she have to try?

Because she is Hawke, she tries.

Hawke dives back, grabs the Inquisitor by the shoulders and heaves. The bridge rumbles a final time and they all stumble, the two women and the elf Ellana had saved. They are a tangled mess of limbs on the stones that give way beneath them.

Hawke’s face twists and those eyes, blue and alive, meet his.

And then they are gone.

Lost in the darkness as the bridge sunders. Others too are over the edge but Fenris is somehow damnably on solid ground. Half turned and frozen in place, his blood-soaked blade heavy in his hand.

Fenris does not register the others who fell. He stands, stock still, as the trembling in the ground beneath them stops. He curses every god he knows that somehow he has survived this.

He is oblivious to the flash of green light that shines up from over the edge of the bridge.  He knows only one thing.

Hawke is gone.

 


	14. Guilt

_Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets._

*

Solas breathes sharply through his nose. The air is dead, stagnant and the weight in his limbs is just slightly off, neither heavier nor lighter than the norm, but simply _different._

Next to him, Cole is losing his mind.

“Not here. Not like this. When I became me I made myself _forget this place._ ”

“Hush,” he tells the boy in his most reassuring tone. His hands grip the spirit’s shoulders, feel Cole’s shaking. The boy looks frantically about himself, milky eyes wide and a part of Solas understands his terror deeply.

 _The raw fade_. Solas looks around as well. The Inquisitor is hovering just a few feet from him, her dark eyes surveying their surroundings with wonder. Slowly,  some invisible force drops her so that her feet connect with the jagged stone plain.

“This looks nothing like the last time I was in the Fade.” Hawke’s voice, coming from where the woman is standing unfathomably at a ninety-degree angle above them, echoes oddly.

“What, no friends stabbing you in the back at the slightest provocation from a demon?” Varric is pulling himself up off the ground, glancing up at his friend.

Solas looks down at his own hands and is grateful that he has been able to keep his simple form, even in as unnatural a place as this. Cole is calming slowly next to him, though the boy still trembles.

“What did you do, Inquisitor?” Cassandra always calls the elf by her official title when in the company of others. The Seeker’s principles, it seems, are unshaken by their sudden relocation. Classic Cassandra,  unafraid and forever seeking reason.

“I saw a light.” Stroud, the warden, walks towards Ellana. “You brought us through to this place.”

“She sundered reality.” Solas says, authoritative and direct. Even decades after walking amidst them, it astonished the elf how little most mortals understood  of the planes beyond their own.

“She ripped a whole in the fabric of the universe and brought us into this realm. This is unlike the Fade of my dreams.”

“And mine as well. The Fade is never quite this… dank.” Dorian's voice surprises Solas - so many of them the  Inquisitor had saved from an inelegant death,  bodies broken in the valley below Adamant. 

Despite being suspended upside down, Dorian managed a delicate rumple of his nose in disgust. No matter how accomplished a scholar he was, Solas was little amused by the Tevinter’s endless need to make light of every situation.

“I sure hope so. Maker knows how anyone could rest looking at this shit.”

Varric’s words weren’t wrong. The land around them leaked an eerie green light, not unlike the mark that strummed softly in Ellana’s palm. Jagged rocks jutted out from the swampish ground at irregular angles,  and all around them a chilly damp wind swirled.

“Fascinating,” he finds himself saying.

“No, no, they will _see_ me and they will know. They will bring me back.”

“We’ll keep you safe, Cole.” Ellana, of course, would default to comforting, ensuring safety instead of taking action.

“You,” Hawke, by contrast, is all action. She nods at Solas and the elf casts her a dismissive glance. Champion of Kirkwall seemed unfit title for a woman who fled the city when it gave way to flames. “You seem to know something of this place. How do we get out?”

“Are we dead?” The mustached warden is still blinking in wonder.

Solas snorts.

“We are not dead. We are suspended between realms.” He nods to the swirling black in the distance. “The Black City is so close we could certainly reach it.”

“And that is all the hubris from mages I need for one day.” Hawke is striding forward then, rests a gauntleted hand on Ellana’s arm.

“Is that where we came through?” The human asks the elf with a gesture towards a distant swirling mass of green.

Ellana sighs. “I don’t know, but staying here and moping is not an option.”

They agree and move out, feeling small against the endless stretch of the bleak terrain around them.  _Paltry_ _mortals_ ,  Solas thinks not for the first time. Their hope that they could  triumph against a foe like Corypheus spoke volumes to their naivety. The darkspawn weilded some of Solas' own might through the sundered orb and aborted ritual with the Divine.  Not enough to kill the blasted mage, and yet not enough to free Solas' powers indefinitely.

Instead, the power contained within the orb had been fractured, the larger half with the Tevinter’s magister and a smaller slice, just enough to be significant, resting in the palm of Ellana Lavellan. Cast from her clan, petty thief made leader of the world's last hope for order.  The object of so much speculation. What  Solas felt for Ellana was at first just clinical  curiosity: how had someone so small and feeble held his power without consequence? He had checked it as best he could that fateful day when they found Ellana in the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and he was certain she would die then chained to the floor in a dungeon below Haven.

He was prepared to accept her as another elven casualty in his fight to reclaim what his people were owed. How could a frame so slight contain the power of an ancient force like Fen’harel?

But somehow, Ellana had survived. Whether it was Solas’ intervention or her own will, he would never know. She bent his magic to her will time and again and he felt it pull on his soul each instance she activated the mark.

What began as wonder turned into admiration. Ellana was nothing but she did not quit. She stood up time and again and accepted the duties, various and numerous though they were, that her advisers placed on her. Like the Hero of Ferelden, her actions showed the world that elves were not to be dismissed.

What does he feel for her now, he wonders as he watches the Inquisitor talk with Hawke up ahead. Varric trails behind the Champion and Dorian is at Cole’s side, trying to keep his words light and distracting for the spirit. Stroud closes the formation at the back, followed by Cassandra who’s steely gaze remains vigilant. They are a disparate and unlikely band of men and women, locked into a place that shouldn’t exist. The fade without its artifices - a place so unlike the realm where Solas wanders when he dreams.

Ahead he watches Ellana drift away from Hawke, her gaze perturbed. What does it mean for Solas -  remnant of an ancient time when mortals were powerful enough to wear the title of god, to fend off the ravages of time - that he sees that worried expression on the Inquisitor’s face and finds himself needing to remedy it?  Solas speeds up to a jog and places himself at the elf’s side.

“What troubles you, da’len?”

He can read the worry in her brow, the frantic energy in her usually measured step. He admits that even he does not like the alien feel of the raw fade around them, but Ellana looks positively queasy.

“We didn’t all make it.” She says, her voice low. Behind them, he can hear Hawke and Varric bantering though their words do little to lighten the oppressive weight of the place. “Bull and Blackwall. Vivienne. Sera. Hawke’s elven friend.”

Ah. Of course it would be thoughts of the others.

“We cannot know what transpires back at Adamant.” She doesn’t glance at him when he replies, keeps her gaze instead trained on the rugged path before them. “All we can do is tend to our own survival.”

She lets out a noise of frustration.

“Do they mean _nothing_ to you, Solas?”

He’s shocked at her bitter words, feels his eyes widen. Solas is unused to surprise - there is little that can be novel after one has lived as long as he has. But callousness from the Inquisitor is uncommon. He says nothing, but in his mind, he grabbles with her words as she stalks away from him.

What did the Inquisition mean to him? He’d started down this path so long ago. Acquire the magister’s complaince with the orb. The orb would kill Corypheus surely, and Solas would regain his former powers, bring a blight upon those who had for so long oppressed his people.

Instead, what had he found? His steps are quiet as he trails after the Inquisitor, too muted in the cavernous plains that surround their small band.

He’d found one of his own - an elf blessedly unmarked by the slave brands that her foolish people clung to. Refreshingly open-minded and stalwart in her quest for understanding. He knew that above all else, an explanation for the mark was what drove Ellana. If he prayed, which, for him, would be painfully ironic gesture, he’d pray for only one thing - that Ellana never knew of the answers he held close to his breast.

And beyond Ellana, there were men and elves and qunari and halflings who demonstrated a range of emotions that he was frankly too tired to contemplate. Love and loyalty. Generosity and valour. Selfishness and cowardice and the ardent desire to be _better_. It had been so long since he spent much time in the company of mortals. His plan, once so sound and so justified, became complicated by the patent goodness that the Inquisitor seemed to bring out in everyone.

They meet Justinia, or a fragment of her, and the Seeker came undone. The spirit of Justinia explains where they are and what it might mean, though her words are frustratingly cryptic for the Inquisitor who interrogates her. Her words mean something to Solas though - with growing trepidation, he realizes exactly where in the Fade they are. What they face. This is the place where Corypheus has locked away Ellana’s memories. The place where the Nightmare reigned.

The Nightmare was a spirit the others whispered of in hushed tones and even Solas had never seen its like. Vast beyond comprehension, some spirits said, while others spoke of the pleasant bliss He could grant you if you had lived too long and seen too much. But the Nightmare never returned memories: once again, Ellana’s determination worked miracles.

In the unnatural void of the raw fade, Solas’ prayer for anonymity came very close to dissolution. Ellana encountered one memory after another and Cassandra was eager in pursuit of that blasted Chantry leader. Justinia knew nothing of Solas’ involvement, of course; she was just a pawn in place to allow the orb to awaken. But who knows what Corypheus had said in the dark of the Temple before the ritual.

Solas felt the nervousness strum along his veins with each memory the Inquisitor encountered - would this be the one that revealed his role in the plot?

While the others debate Justinia’s true nature, spirit or demon, real relic of the woman or well-meaning construct of this place, Solas keeps his eyes on Ellana. She stands before them all, gaze downcast, looking at the hand that bears the mark. Her hair falls over her forehead, blocks his view of those emerald eyes.

“They mean something to me.” He says softly, hating himself a little because it’s true. Decades locked away and all it took was the sound of her laughter, the comradery and revelry of a few good men and women, to undermine his convictions. Not enough to erase them, certainly, but Solas isn’t quite sure what he wants anymore.

Ellana glances over at Solas – he hadn’t realised she could hear him. The elf is regaining her past, assaulted by memories that had been kept from her by design, but she seems unfazed. Is, for the moment, holding it together. Probably in the same fashion that Dorian had reported after Redcliffe: _she found the strength for when she needed it,_ the Tevinter had said. Afterwards, though, Solas remembers the haunted look in her eye as she ghosted from room to room at Haven. Could she survive something like this too - knowing that she was not Andraste’s chosen, but rather a lucky interloper who threw all plans into disarray?

The knowledge that the Divine, leader of Thedas’ dominant religion, was made the object of a sacrifice, happened upon by a foolish elf, upended everything that common rumours spouted about Ellana. Cassandra and the elf have always been close, but he looks back at the Seeker, trailing behind them all with disconsolate grief on her face, and he wonders if their friendship will survive. A mentor who’s death seemed so patently linked to the survival of a friend.

“I’m sorry I said that.” Ellana’s voice is soft next to him and he is startled out of his thoughts. The memories and thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him are making him oblivious: the raw fade likely had something to do with it. Stewing doubt. Letting worries fester. Giving birth to the fears that the Nightmare fed upon with glee.

“It wasn’t fair and you were right.” Ellana’s expression is hard and her green eyes are locked on the path ahead. She shows none of the surprise the others expressed when they learned that it was a fluke, stars aligning, that made her their leader. “There is nothing we can do for the others now. We need to focus on ourselves.”

He takes her hand without thinking, intertwines his fingers in with hers and she glances over, faint surprise in the widening of her eyes. He cannot deny that he has always found her beautiful, though that is likely in part because of the mark. His power, radiating out from her palm. A part of him always with her, though she is oblivious to the fact.

The Inquisitor smiles softly at him and her fingers squeeze against his in return. They stay like that, hand in hand, until the being that holds her memories begins to rumble.

_Perhaps I should be afraid. Facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition._

They stop suddenly and everyone’s weapons are up, Ellana’s hands out of his and her knives at the ready. But Solas knows better. He does not move to grip his staff because this is fear without form, a power they cannot defeat with bows and blades. The Nightmare is everywhere at once, and they are in his playground.

_Are you afraid, Cole?_

Ellana whirls and her green eyes lock onto the pale boy trailing behind Stroud. She steps up to him and puts an arm around his shoulders as he whimpers. Dorian stands closer to the pair, his staff raised and ready as if desperate to do something against the voice that knows so much.

_I can help you forget the horrors of this place. What was done to you. Just like you help others forget._

“To forget,” Cole mutters. “Is to unknow and after all of this,” he looks into Ellana’s eyes and she smiles at him, reaches out to clasp his wrist. “I don’t want to unknow.” The boy whispers at the Inquisitor.

 _We’re so very alike, you and I._ The voice is sinister and omnipotent; Solas feels it in his chest. It is unfair for the Nightmare to tear apart the poor spirit. Cole is nothing but compassion and kindness; he does not have the skills to combat a foe like this one.

Nightmare’s voice fades but he continues to plague them as they proceed.

_Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence that your Maker does not exist._

With each word in that empty voice, Solas feels something akin to panic in his veins. It is clear the demon sees and knows much. How much, he wonders, can the creature read about him? A place like this with spirits like the Nightmare threatened the secrets Solas has tried so hard to bury. But he is not the creature’s next target.

_Once again, Hawke is in trouble because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You brought her here._

“And _you_ can go and stuff it now.” Hawke injects before Varric even has a chance to retort. But then the words whittle away at Hawke herself and at Dorian for being so much like his father.

They scamper over stones and dispense with demons when they have to. The enemies look different to each of them, spiders for Varric and black magic wisps for Dorian. The Tevinter mage explains before Solas has to; in this place, the demons take the forms of their fears, different for each of them and calculated for maximum terror.

As the party approaches the green vortex that might promise their escape, Solas begins to think that he will leave this place unscathed by the Nightmare’s taunts, his secret intact.

But then:

 _Dirth ma, harellan._ Words in the ancient tongue and Solas is shocked to hear it spoken. _Ma banal enasalin._

Tell me Trickster, did your victory amount to anything?

Funny that the demon gave him so much credit, Solas reflects. He’d never truly known victory against the so-called Creators, against Mythal and her ilk. And he’d failed yet again with Corypheus and the orb. What victory could he comment on, really? But Nightmare’s haunting voice pressed on:

_Mar Solas ena mar din._

Your pride will be your death.

Well, about that, the demon was probably right. Ellana glanced at him, curious, and Solas knew he had to say something. To retort it like the others has.

“Banal nadas,” he says, tone dry.

Nothing is inevitable, he tells the spirit. The Nightmare spoke truly after all.

Ellana was still watching him, eager for a translation that he would not deliver. Dorian’s expression is thoughtful and he wonders how skilled the man’s elvish was. The language the demon spoke was long dead, but who knew what troves of knowledge the Tevinters hoarded, dirty spoils from their shameless ransacking of the lands of Solas’ people.

Instead of asking for his meaning, the Inquisitor turns away from Solas. He hears her repeat words the Divine had spoken.

“Without fear and pain and failure, we cannot learn. We cannot grow.” She clenches her fists tight and they press on. The Nightmare promises to take away the parts of themselves that they do not want to face. Solas sees in the determination of Ellana’s eyes and realizes that she’d rather have the truth, however unglamorous it may be.

 _You cannot grow until you recover all that was taken from you._ Justinia understood, then, that Corypheus’ strength came from his knowledge. He understood the arcane magic he dabbled in, wrapped them up in the spells and the spirits before the Inquisition had a chance to find him and cut off his head. From Justinia, the Inquisitor was learning that it was knowledge and understanding more than strength of arms and loyalty that would enable her to defeat the magister.

Solas could offer her so much. He could balance the spectrum, give her the same advantage that Corypheus had and help her understand what it all meant. The mark, the orb, the rifts. But as he watched the elf pull herself over a ledge, her muscles flexing, he suspected it would be better if she came to the truth on her own.

They were so close now. Over another stone ridge towards the swirling mists that would hopefully spell their escape. But Ellana had one last memory to take in. Her mark comes alive and Solas tenses behind her as he and the others are plunged into the past.

_The elf and the matron are at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the older woman poised at the top of a towering stone spire, stooped to help Ellana up as ghastly spiders scale the wall behind her._

_“The demons!” The Divine yells, hoisting Ellana up and onto the precipice where the Breach swirls angrily. They sprint towards the green vortex._

_“Keep running!” Ellana yells as they head towards the Breach._

_But Justinia screams and Ellana is turning, too late to pry the demons off the older woman’s legs. The Divine looks up and her eyes are wise and sad._

_“Go,” she says._

_And Ellana does._

The ground shifts and they are back in the oppressive damp of the raw fade. The Inquisitor stands small and helpless before them all. Divine Justinia’s spirit smiles softly at her.

“It was you…” Ellana whispers and even Solas is surprised. He knew only that Ellana must’ve interrupted the ritual. He thought that the elf’s survival was the product of his mark; his power, vested in her, saving her from the force of the explosion Corypheus caused. This outcome was unexpected. What did it mean that Ellana’s survival was not the product of his own might, but rather stemmed from the selfless sacrifice from a woman of another race?

“They thought it was Andraste sending me from the fade.” The Inquisitor’s words are soft and slow, full of wonder. “But it was the Divine behind me.”

Cassandra walks slowly up to stand next to Ellana. Like the elf, she is regarding the spectre before them with an expression of awe.

“And then you…” Ellana continues, eyes wide and voice heavy with the weight of realization. “She died.”

Justinia inclined her head and Solas was struck by the nobility of the action.

“Yes.” The old woman said finally.

“So this creature is simply a spirit,” Stroud said, as Cassandra’s shoulders slumped. Of course, the fade creature was not truly the Divine, Solas thought. Not in the way that the Seeker had hoped, anyway.

“You don’t say,” Hawke’s interjection is flat, mirthless and it is on the Champion that the Divine’s ghost levels her gaze.

“I am sorry if I disappoint you.” The spectre says. The icy blue eyes are heavy on Hawke and Solas reminds himself that if anyone has a reason to mistrust magic, it is the Champion. The woman who, after magic destroyed or took what was left of her family, sided with mages anyway. Solas has never had much patience for the human idol worship that turned women like Hawke into living legends. But like this creature of the fade, he too recognizes the loss that Hawke has suffered.

The Divine then inexplicably begins to glow, is split apart by a light form a dozen directions, shining out until she coalesces into glowing golden outline of a woman.

“Are you her spirit?” Ellana asks the floating woman but no answer comes from the light.

“What we do know is that the mortal Divine died at the Temple because of the wardens that turned against her.” Hawke’s tone is bitter as she throws the words at Stroud.

“The wardens did not know their own minds.” Stroud says defensively. “Corypheus -”

“Demons can’t do shit to those who know how to resist, Stroud.” Hawke is angry. Solas cross his arms and stands next to Varric, disappointed in how easy it is to drive mortals to ire.

“We will discuss this once we are back at Adamant,” Stroud insists, ever the diplomat.

“Assuming that the demon army that _your_ order raised hasn’t turned the Inquisition into mabari food while we’ve been stuck here!” Hawke jabbed a finger into the warden’s chest, but the stoic man refused to let her win.

“Who are you to judge us? You who tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion.”

“I was protecting innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic! But you can’t imagine that Stroud, because you can’t see a world without wardens! Even if that’s exactly what the world needs.”

“Now, now,” Dorian is injecting. “Be careful what you say or you’ll call down another blight on us and be sorry you asked for that.”

“I don’t know,” Varric, on Solas’ other side, speaks up. “The wardens do have an awful tendency of going crazy.”

Wardens, Seekers, Templars - the Chantry and the Magisterium. These mortals needed their constructs so much. Solas stayed silent while the argument brewed. The Inquisitor stood by Cassandra’s side, her back to all of them and her chin up to watch the entity that had worn the Divine’s face. The spirit creature was beginning to fade, its glow retreating with it.

Then suddenly, the shrieking around them wasn’t just the wind.

“The Nightmare has found us.” Justinia’s voice rang out again before her spirit sundered into a small golden flame, whirring away from them. Solas swung his staff up and looked back to Ellana.

“Now is not the time for this!” The elf yells to her companions, knives appearing in her hands.

Hawke and Stroud met each other’s eyes and nodded.

“Form up,” Stroud’s accented words were firm.

“I’m with you,” Hawke seconded.

Too much personality for one party, Solas thought as they leaped into motion. They begin to run, chasing after the retreating golden light of the Divine. The shrieking, a noise like a thousand dying demons wailing against their ears, increases in volume, but they seem to be escaping. The curving wicked edges of the rocks beneath their feet give way to smoother, unearthly plains and an irrational part of Solas laments that he cannot stay longer to analyze this realm.

But the Nightmare will not leave them be.

_Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life! The demon army you fear? They are bound through me. I command them._

_Ah_. Solas understood now. Corypheus’ dominance over this mighty creature was enabled by his power gained through the orb. And it was _through_ the Nightmare that his demon army was possible - demons always bowed to those of their kinds who were stronger, vaster. Justinia’s spirit puts his thoughts into words.

“So if we banish you,” her voice echoes around them, an Orlesian accent on the rocks. “we banish the demons. Thank you, every fear come to life.”

Solas smirks though they all keep running. A human though she was, the Divine seemed like someone that Solas could have respected.

Dorian and him turn and launch lightning backwards - the spiders that trial them are fast and determined. Other demons rise out of the ground before them, but the Inquisitor’s party is numerous and skilled, and the aspects of the Nightmare are quickly reduced to flailing limbs and green ooze.

It is only when they witness the Nightmare itself that Solas begins to doubt their success.

He is a vast creature, spreading endlessly into the horizon, a mess of writhing limbs and cascading darkness. His evil majesty silences even Dorian and Varric - they all stop short as it lumbers into their view, positioning itself effortlessly between them and the swirling portal that promises them escape.

A massive, bulbous leg leaps forward, slams into the ground in front of them.

“Go!” Ellana yells and Solas leads her companions onward - Varric, Cole, Dorian and Cassandra all trail after him. Her words are their motivation - they have seen their saviour fall and rise once, and it does not even occur to them that they should linger in this empty place and fight.

But Ellana, Solas is shocked to realize as he glances over his shoulder, is not following. She stands with Hawke on one side and Stroud on the other, her gaze level with the Nightmare.

The creature has let them pass, Solas realizes, because they are _nothing_ to its mind. The Inquisitor is the true quarry.

“Go!” The elf yells again, meeting Solas’ gaze across the spread of rocks and mist. The others turn then and Cassandra realizes what is happening. Again. Ellana planning to stay as she sends them through to safety.

The Seeker and the others move back towards their leader, but Solas reads in Ellana’s face that this is one thing he can do for her. When did his distant curiosity turn into this type of loyalty, a small part of him wonders?

Whatever fate awaits her in this place between life and death, she does not wish it upon her friends. A request, a pleading in her eyes and Solas cannot ignore that. Whatever she is to him, whatever it means that she is the one who barred his success at the conclave - he cannot think on these things now.

Instead, he turns and spreads his arms, staff out. Dorian, Varric, Cole and Cassandra freeze.

“We are leaving.” He says, flat, and then his magic is lacing out of him, a buffeting wind that throws the four of them through the green vortex.

He turns and sees Ellana nod gratefully. The Nightmare lumbers forward again and a swinging foot just grazes Solas’ arm, causing the elf to stumble.

Hawke and Stroud are both speaking at once, but Solas is too far away to hear the words.

Instead, he turns and steps towards the portal.

One last look at Ellana. She is listening to the warden and the Champion, but her eyes remain on Solas.

 _Go_ , they say. That same self-sacrifice, that need to put others before her.

He steps through, and all he knows is nothingness.

*

The anchor lingers.

There are moments when her mind disconnects, lets go, affixing to the present, to Dorian’s smirk and Varric’s muttered witticisms that couch a heartfelt ‘thank you’. But then it flares, not with its telltale green hue, but with an insistent pinch, a searing heat along the central seam of her left palm, as if to chastise her for forgetting its presence.

Ellana thinks on it more after Adamant. After she _made_ with it, sundering reality open instead of containing, closing, compartmentalizing Thedas from the Fade in the way she always had. After she scrapped open a dizzying channel, building a pathway to the place where she imprisoned Stroud for life.

The anchor lingers, and, after Adamant, it mocks her. With it, she had sealed a good man’s fate, and the mark on her hand seems to know that, taking pride from the shame that it brings her.

“Are you alright?” Dorian had asked in the aftermath.

A question to which she could only reply: “Stroud… is gone”.

Dorian had softened at her evident distress and then moved on. Ever the scholar, he'd effortlessly weighed risks and benefits and insisted that they’d come out on top.  Done the unthinkable, gone where no living soul had ventured before, and returned more or less intact to tell the tale. Her friend was, understandably, in awe of their experience and writing about it with the diligent attention to detail that only a learned man could muster.

The weight behind her words went unintentionally unheeded; the part of her that screamed _I ripped the world open with my hand and left a good man behind to_ die did not find a voice.

Her choice had been swift, thoughtless in the moment because Hawke was a hero in her city, a true friend to one of Ellana's truest friends, a sister, a protector, the loved one of an elf and former slave. Later, looking down at the eerie fissure in her hand, immense guilt overwhelms Ellana because, no, there really hadn't been a choice. It had to be Stroud, the last good warden, unjustly made to atone for the sins of his brothers when he himself had only done right. It was easier because she knew him without context; Stroud was curving script on a report in Leliana's hand, accomplishments and potential applications summarized succinctly for the Inquisition's deployment. He was the sum total of their brief encounters: aimiable, honourable, staunchly set in his ways. An unfair equation when stacked against everything the world knew about Hawke.

The Champion was, by contrast, a crooked smile and piercing blue eyes, sharp wit and a sudden laugh. A woman who assiduously, and with aid, evaded Ellana’s ragtag organization until she deemed it fit to participate – how could words on a page compare to that?

Varric had asked her to save Hawke. That night on the battlements outside of Crestwood, the orange-haired dwarf had chastised the Inquisitor for dallying, and she had promised she would save the Champion if she could.

Ellana sits next to Sera at the tavern, smile on her lips as she tries to be apart from it. The anchor. Bull, on her other side, pushes a tankard her way, and she is all too ready to get smashed on his turpentine. But the anchor lingers, and she cannot dismiss the hints of the feeling - the steady ache that lies just below the surface of her consciousness, almost invisible until her mind, caving, flits back to its existence. When it does, when what she thinks of as ‘the marked hand’ grasps the tankard firmly, it pulses, not with light, but with a sensation that only she can perceive. As if it knows that it has won. Again. That she cannot dismiss it. That pretending it is not there will never work.

She takes a swig from the tankard and coughs, sputtering as Bull laughs uproariously and slaps her on the back.

"That's the spirit." He tells her, voice thick in that way that tells her he's had too many and plans to keep going.  "Nothing gets you through hard times like a _real_ drink." 

Cabot, face in his perpetual scowl as he wipes down glasses on the other side of the bar, sniffs disapprovingly, and Ellana isn't sure if it’s a response to Bull's volume or to the assertion that the piss in her mug is a real drink.

But as Bull and Sera fall deeper under the pleasant fuzz of a drink downed too quickly, Ellana finds herself standing. Staggering away.

 _It has been an honour, Inquisitor._ His last words, the Orlesian accent and a sadness that she could never unhear. He’d looked her in the eyes as she consigned him to death. Did what she asked even though they’d all watched the memories together, all learned that she was no chosen of the Maker, no herald of Andraste. Just a woodland elf in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Coincidence, not fate, had made her Inquisitor. Stroud died on the command of a woman made leader by a fluke.

She collapses against the outside of the tavern, sinking down. In the shadow of the building, she prays that no one will see her. Men and women mill about, sparring in the open courtyard, laughing, and Ellana closes her eyes so that she cannot see it anymore.

Stroud’s face is waiting on the inside of her eyelids and the anchor is laughing. Mocking her, alive in the cleft of her palm and ready to consume her whole. She can almost hear Corypheus whispering in her head: _you’ve stopped my demon army but at what cost?_

_What is your Inquisition if the lives of those who serve it are meaningless to you?_

Ellana buries her hands in her hair and is shocked to realize she is screaming.

The magister god cackles and she wonders if she is losing her mind. The mark in her hand comes to life and everyone in the courtyard has stopped, is watching her as she crouches in what was once darkness, bathed in shimmering green light, her jaw clenched so that she will not scream again.

Leliana is suddenly by her side.

“Come, Inquisitor,” she says softly, in an accent that was all too much like Stroud’s. “It has been a trying few weeks. You need rest.”

The spymaster’s hand is insistent at Ellana’s elbow, and the Inquisitor will not look up. Lets Leliana lead them where she may because the ability to resist has long since fled the elf. They scutter through the Great Hall, passed Josephine and a group of men in silks and tights. Beneath the head of the dragon they’d slain in Crestwood and the halflings merchant and his enchanter son, a well-meaning lad who whispered “enchantment” softly as they passed.

Then they were through the door and blessedly away from prying eyes. Leliana’s fingers are tight on the Inquisitor’s elbow and even still the human insists on leading them. Leliana - always action and surety. Confidence in her plan, no matter how gruesome it had to be. Of all of the Inquisition members, the spymaster was the most pragmatic, the one who over and over again dedicated herself to the difficult choices and darker methods that none of the others wished to face.

“The choice would have been easy for you,” Ellana mutters to the human woman as they mount the stairs to the Inquisitor’s chamber.

“What do you mean, Inquisitor?” Leliana has always been stiff and formal with Ellana. The elf has seen her laugh, with Josie and Cullen, but when it’s just the two of them the spymaster is all surface pleasantries or clipped commands. It has worked for them, over these long months, and Ellana never sought to change their relationship.

“The Champion or the warden.” They are in Ellana’s room and the elf suddenly needs fresh air. Pulls out of the human’s hand and out onto the wide balcony. A storm is brewing in the distance, clouds grey and tumultuous over the mountains. “They asked me to choose.”

“I read your report.” Leliana’s reply is even, emotionless and the woman stands with crossed arms behind the Inquisitor. “But you must think me unfeeling indeed if you think your choice would have been easy in my hands.”

Leliana’s tone is not hurt, simply factual. The wind stirs her red, red hair and Ellana wonders what it must be like to be so full of colour. Pale skin, vibrant hair, blue eyes. Ellana, by comparison, is a palette of earth-tones, browns and greens without contrast.

“Why did they turn to me?” Ellana spins to face Leliana, leans back on her hands against the railing of the balcony. “How could I decide?”

Leliana says nothing for a moment. Shakes her head slowly.

“You are the Inquisitor. Stroud and Hawke both respected that.”

“But surely there was a right choice. I made the right choice didn’t I? Facts and figures, the alliances each brought, the impact on moral,” Ellana gestures with her hands, willing Leliana to understand. The anchor, meanwhile, is dull pain against her hand, sending small flickers of agony up her arm.

“I cannot give you what you need, Ellana.” Leliana’s face softens in a small way. “I don’t know who the better asset is for the Inquisition. Or who was the more logical choice.” The human steps forward, raises a hand as if to touch Ellana and then lets it fall.

Ellana’s hands fist and she drops the woman’s gaze, stares fixedly at the stone beneath their feet.

“All I know is that when a decision needed to be made, you made it.”

The elf glances up through her eyelashes. Leliana is standing close, watching her with a guarded expression, as if ready for the Inquisitor to burst into flames or foolish action.

Ellana sighs and turns around. Gazes at the mountains beyond and for once feels no yearning to draw them, to capture their sublimity in charcoal.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Leliana came to stand next to her, letting her hands rest on the balcony.

The Inquisitor cast a sidelong glance at the woman as slow realization seeped into her mind. These were the everyday decisions faced by Leliana. Which assets to sacrifice, which to save. Ellana had blamed the woman once, hated the spymaster for the merciless way she’d interrogated her shortly after her arrival in Haven. But Ellana understood now. It was like the Divine had said. She repeats the words, softly.

“Without fear and pain and failure, we cannot learn. We cannot grow.”

Lelianna nods.

“Justinia’s words ring true here. Stroud’s sacrifice will not be squandered.”

“She, uhm.” Ellana swallows. She hadn’t put this last detail in the reports, but the spymaster deserved to know. “She apologized.”

“Hm?”

“She said ‘tell Leliana I’m sorry I failed her too.’”

Leliana says nothing but Ellana sees her grip tighten on the railing before them.     

“She was quite a woman.” Ellana remarks finally, speaking words into the silence because someone had to say _something._

“And Stroud was quite a man,” Leliana responds immediately. She turns sideways to face the Inquisitor. “We will honour their sacrifices.”

“And we must do it quickly.” Ellana replies. “Leliana. I fear that Corypheus is driving me mad.”

The words are out there and the Inquisitor cannot take them back. Someone had to know - it wasn’t enough to rely on Dorian’s sleep magics to keep the magister at bay. The mark feels angry at this admission and its presence turns into a searing heat in her hand. Ellana clutches the hand closed and refuses to let the pain onto her face.

“What do you mean?” Leliana’s eyes are wide with concern.

“I hear his voice. We are linked by this.” She brings the fist up but will not set the mark alight. “He’s mocking me every step of the way.”

Leliana’s hands find the Inquisitor’s shoulders.

“You are not mad, Inquisitor.” Her blue eyes hold the elf’s green ones intensely. “You are connected by some evil magic perhaps, but you are our leader and our saviour. You will not succumb to this.”

Ellana swallows. Studies the woman and admires the confidence in the way the weight settles into one of Leliana’s hips, the way her armour is polished and her scarlet hair is neatly parted. So together and so confident.

“How are you so sure?”

The spymaster responds with a half-smile that is all confidence.

“You are not the first living legend I have fought alongside. Greatness comes with a price, but in the end it always triumphs.”

Of course. While Ellana was just a petty crook in the dank of Kirkwall, Leliana was saving the word alongside Tabris, Hero of Ferelden. Another elf at the center of a myth of epic proportions. Another hero who struggled with dark dreams - the nightmares of wardens - and whispered voices.

Inexplicably, Ellana finds herself laughing.

“There’s precedent for all this shit.”

Leliana laughs alongside her, and Ellana is momentarily surprised at just how feminine the sound of the other woman’s laughter is. It’s easy to forget, in the face of her cold justice and quick daggers, that Leliana was once a bard and a gem of the Orlesian court.

“That’s right, Inquisitor.” Leliana holds her gaze with a fond smile and Ellana reflects that this might be the first truly pleasant conversation they’ve ever had.

“Thank you, Leliana,” She clasps the woman’s arm.

“Of course. We can’t have you falling apart in the courtyard after all. What would Josie say?”

Ellana knows better than to smart at the comment. The spymaster turns and sashays off the balcony.

“Oh,” she calls over her shoulder as she makes to leave. “If you have a moment, go see the Commander. He’s stewing in guilt, amongst other things. Could use some of your cheer.”

Ellana cocks her head and says nothing as Leliana disappears out the chamber door. She hadn’t seen Cullen much in the aftermath of Adamant. He’d stayed with the troops, coordinated care for the wounded, while she and her party had forged on ahead of the slower army.

The elf looks down at the mark on her hand and she can feel its evil will pressing against her skin. She closes the fist tightly again and decides she cannot let it win. She has to be in motion instead of stagnant, _doing_ so that she won’t get lost in the oppressive sea of emotions that thinking on the anchor brings. She goes to see the Commander immediately.

Cullen’s desk is, as always, run over with papers, and the man himself sits behind the desk, nose in one report with another one clutched in his hand.

He didn't hear Ellana enter and she takes the moment to study him. The Commander looked tired - his hair stood on end, evidence of the frustrated hand that ran through it more times than Ellana could count in a single meeting, and his eyes were red rimmed with sleeplessness.  As always, he is breastplate and fur cloak, his sword leaning against the side of desk but within reach should a crisis arise. That was the Commander all over – always alert, always ready. She smiles softly and wonders how the Inquisition got so lucky – not just in Cullen, whose leadership on the field of battle was thoroughly proven after Adamant, but also in Leliana for knowing what questions to ask when, and in Josephine for doing what the rest of them could not.

Cullen glances up and copper eyes widen at the sight of her.

"Inquisitor." He hastily makes to stand, sends scroll tubes skittering over his desk, but she waves him back into his seat.  The elf drags a stool over and sits across from him, lets her eyes dance over the reports and orders that make up his day. No one wrote songs about all the paper work the Inquisition processed. No bard recited tales of the knee-high piles of requisition orders Ellana filled, the training schedules the Commander devised, the letters asking one last time for funds that Josephine so carefully worded. Unsung acts of heroism that were just as vital as the demon-fighting, the rift-closing.

"Inquisitor." Cullen says again, clearing his throat. "I was about to seek you out."

She looks up at him then and cocks her head to the left.  But Cullen continues to stare, pale and uncertain in the light that filters through that still-unfixed hole in his ceiling, and Ellana realizes that maybe her silence discomforts him.  That even after all her years of living amongst humans, she forgets that they need sound, the reaffirmation of their own voices.  So different from how her father had trained her - in their prime in Kirkwall, Ellana and her father could have an entire silent conversation over the head of a prospective buyer. Decide whether to knife the customer in the ribs for knowing too much or to up the ante by a dozen royals. Fates and fortunes determined through glances and silent gestures.

"Leliana said you were…" Ellana pauses, purses her lips as she remembers the exact phrase, "stewing in guilt? Maker knows why."

She puts on a small smile but Cullen simply looks confused.  Inwardly, the elf sighs - why was he always so on edge around her?

"What?" Cullen's eyes narrow and the Inquisitor can't tell if it's annoyance or suspicion but then he’s moved on.  "That doesn't matter now.  This report..."

The Commander stretches out a gauntleted hand to pass the document and then thinks better of it, pulling it away from Ellana's reaching fingers.

"Cullen?" the elf is confused. 

"It's…" He stammers in return. "It's from your Keeper.  Er.  The Keeper of clan Lavellan that is. "

Ellana swallows hard as guilt rides over her in waves.  Of course.  When she'd left for Adamant things in Wycome were only worsening.  With the help of Leliana's spies they’d uncovered that her Clan was under attack from the Duke Antoine himself - his troops, in disguise, brought violence to clan Lavellan in an effort to displace blame for the Duke’s own crimes. Her people made to suffer once because Antoine’s greed pushed the limits of what was safe.

Red lyrium was behind the plague in Wycome – they’d learned that just before the Inquisition was set to depart for Adamant. Red lyrium of all things, but surely Elhan had understood that the evil in Wycome and the evil of Corypheus were one and the same?

How could she have forgotten? Her stomach twists in a sick knot and she knows she needs to leave, to be gone and on the road to Wycome.

Ellana stands suddenly and reaches over, snatching the missive from Cullen’s hand and ignoring the look of alarm that spreads across his face.

Her eyes scan quickly and Keeper Deshanna’s words, though the hand that guides the cursive is smooth and confident, bespeak muted worries.

“Duke Antoine is dead…” Ellana’s voice holds wonder. Her clan had not been seriously harmed.

“Leliana’s spies sewed secrets in the right places.” Cullen stands too, comes around the desk and begins to strap on his sword. His hands need to be busy, Ellana reflects distantly. Need to be doing something now that she’d taken the letter from him. A man of action, through and through.

“The truth of the red lyrium got out and the people rioted,” he explains. A dark look passes over his face as his brow wrinkles. “I have seen it before. The Duke was killed in the riots, and though some recognize the truth of the matter, I fear your people are still in danger of taking the blame.”

“My Clan is trapped within the city...” Her fists tighten and the paper begins to crumble.

“I need to go Cullen.” She looks up and meets his steely golden gaze. Now that he’s standing, she’s reminded of just how tall he is. His face is impassive as he studies her. “I need to be in Wycome.”

“Josephine has friends and diplomats in the city. Perhaps they can convince the Wycome council to hear reason.” His tone is tentative and she cannot understand why he of all people is saying these words. He was their _Commander_ , the one who always spoke of fortifying the position, showing strength of arms instead of parlayed words.

The Inquisitor is shaking her head before her words have even formed.

“No. The time for cloak and dagger tactics and political maneuvering is over.” She reaches out, her slim fingers clasping his arm. “Cullen. I need a detachment of your best. No one injured from Adamant.”

The Commander meets her gaze and takes a long breath in through his nose. They are close – she can feel the warmth of him – and she has to lift her chin to continue to hold his gaze. She will not look away. Can’t he see how badly she needs this? He studies her for a long moment and she can tell that he does not want to let her go.

Finally, he sighs.

“I know that expression, Inquisitor. You will go with or without my troops.” He says, bringing a hand to rest on top of hers, on his arm. “You may have a detachment. Enough to scare sense into those damned merchants.”

The metal of his gauntlets is cold on the top of her hand, but she squeezes his arm in thanks all the same.

“Thank you, Commander.” She pauses and then decides to push for it. “Could I also have Rylen? I want someone capable at the helm.”

He has not released her and she is reminded of just how close they are standing when his face breaks out into an adorable half smile.

“Inquisitor. These are the people that raised you. Without them and their sense of morality, we would have no leader for our cause.”

Ellana is anxious energy. She appreciates his words but wishes he would just get to the point. She begins to pull back but his metal hand remains on top of hers, holding her close.

“You cannot have Rylen.”

She opens her mouth to object.

“Instead, you will have me.”

Her jaw opens, an unfamiliar expression of surprise.

Cullen laughs and drops her hand.

“I will select the detachment and we will be ready to march within the hour. You had best suit up.”

Ellana nods, determined, and leaps into motion. She is nearly out the door before she remembers. She turns and her expression is, for once, unguarded. The gratitude nearly chokes her. They’ve been back only two days and yet he’s ready to march for her.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

Cullen pauses, his hands frozen in the act of neatly stacking his papers. He looks up and the sunlight turns his pale hair into gold. He meets her eyes and his voice is serious when he replies.

“You are the Inquisitor.” He shifts to face her fully. “It is an honour.”

Ellana hesitates, unsure what to say in the face of his gravitas. Instead, she opts for the elven model of wordless communication. She nods, turns and is gone.

She is unaware of Cullen’s gaze as it follows her across the causeway.


	15. Clan

_Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go._

*

The boss was having a bad week, Bull thought as he leaned back in the saddle of his massive warhorse. The horse whinnied softly but kept plodding on through the woods, as if reminding Bull of the coin he’d lost to Dennet.

He’d sworn the horsemaster couldn’t find a beast large enough to bear a qunari, and damned if the man hadn’t gone and rounded up this lumbering Ferelden sucker. The stallion, large and grey, had given Bull the cut eye when he’d first throw himself on – horses were damned shifty, suspicious creatures – but it’d taken the beast only two tries to throw him before it realized that you didn’t mess with the Iron Bull. So Dennet had earned ten royals for finding the beast, but Bull got five of those back when he held his seat.

But back to the boss. Well, poor lass could use a friendly bet or something to put a smile on her face. Thinking back on it, Bull can’t really remember the last time he’d seen a proper smile on those lips. Probably that was way before Adamant, when they’d taken down that high dragon together and got raucous drunk even though Varric was hounding them to be off.

That was over a fortnight ago now. Days were certainly full for the Inquisition’s grunts and their fearless leader. Rescue Harding and her damned careless scouts from the Fallow Mire – the boss had beat the living shit right out of that Avvar warlord, Bull remembers with a grin. Then trounce over to Crestwood, kill some bandits, fight some demons, close a giant ass rift and out a sketchy mayor for the desperate lowlife that he really was. Battle a dragon and then she was off again to the Western Approach and then to Adamant. Twenty days and a lifetime of miracles, Bull thought with a hmph of air through his lips. He adjusted his seat again and the lump of a horse he rode threw an evil glare over its shoulder. Blasted animals had too much attitude.

And now Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan was here. Not two days after she’d ripped a hole in the world and saved a bunch of lives by throwing them into some wretched fade place, she was leagues away from Skyhold and headed due north for more chaos and cold. Bunched up under furs and stooped over the saddle of her own animal – one of those shrieking harts she’d chosen because in the thick of the Free March woods, being fleet of foot was a blessing from the Maker. She pressed on ahead of them, scouting herself because she couldn’t bear the slow pace of their soldiers.

The elf was nervous energy in the way she sat high in her saddle, the way her hands fidgeted at the reins, at her hair, at the knives at her hip and over her shoulders. She was ready for combat that wasn’t coming – any highwayman with half a brain was inside by a cookfire, not out in this frigid mess. Bull sighed and then sighed again as he watched his breath mist in the air before him.

Someone ought to talk to her, the qunari thought, glancing around. But her partner in crime, Dorian, was wrapped in a dozen blankets and too depressed by the cold to attend to his friend. Bull smirked at the sight of the mage’s handsome face twisted into a sullen scowl beneath a decidedly unfashionable rams-wool hat.

And beyond Dorian, Cassandra and Cullen had their heads bent together in intent conversation. Clearly, they were developing the plan for the approach on Wycome. The boss’ clan was in danger, holed up in that pile of bricks, and it was up to those two to get the Inquisition troops inside the city in a way that wasn’t going to get everyone killed.

Bull didn’t envy them the task, and didn’t begrudge the fact that his quick assessment left only him to cheer up the Inquisitor. With a grunt, and a tightening of his heels, he sent his stallion forward to catch up with the elf and her nimble beast.

“Hey boss,” he says as he pulls up alongside Ellana and her hart. The damned skinny horned fiend had wailed the whole boat ride over. It’d taken every ounce of Qun discipline the keep Bull from throttling the creature. But here, in the wild tail-end of the Vimmark mountains, the animal seemed at peace, quiet and graceful as it clopped over rugged stone and around stunted trees.

“Bull,” Ellana replies with a distracted glance. Her eyes, big and green, don’t focus on the qunari for long and instead slide away to scan their woodland surroundings. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a question,” he rumbles, and when she doesn’t respond or even look at him, he continues. “These elves in Wycome. They’re the ones that raised you, yeah?”

The elf regards him now, her expression speculative.

“Yes. Until I was sixteen, the clan was the only life I’d ever known.” Her gaze falls to her hands, leather gloves gripped tight on the reins of her mount. Clop, clop, clop and the snap of twigs and leaves underfoot – their company’s procession is the only noise in the oppressive silence of the woods.

“So, they’re your people.” Bull clarifies and she nods. “So why don’t you look thrilled that you’ll be seeing them again?”

The Inquisitor opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it when no words come. Behind them, Bull is aware that some of Cullen’s soldiers are close enough to hear them. Damned if he cared – the Inquisitor had always been honest with her troops.

“I…” she rubs the back of her head with her hand, mussing her brown hair. “It’s complicated. I feel responsible. They’re trapped in a city that’s bent on persecuting them, and all I’ve done is send a dozen different kinds of help to dig them out of it.”

“What else could you do, boss?” Bull shrugs. “They were _summoning a demon army_ at Adamant. I think that takes gold on the crisis scale.”

“If I’d just gone there in the first place, maybe they won’t be so royally screwed.” She turns her face to his. “You know?”

Bull laughs.

“Boss, if your people are anything like you, they can fend for themselves.”

Ellana smiles faintly, but does not laugh along with him. They fall silent for a moment, and Bull decides to ask some questions he’s held close for a long time now.

“You walked away from them. You don’t have their marks on your face.”

Ellana’s hand rises up and her fingers dance along one high cheekbone, tracing the outlines where the vallaslin would have been.

“Are they really your people?”

She studies him again, her deep green gaze on his one good eye.

“Just as much as the Qun is your people.”

He snorts.

“The Qun is not a people, boss. It’s a way of life.”

“It’s a set of expectations,” the elf retorts immediately. “The Dalish are the same. Find your role in the clan – hunter, mage, crafts person. Be good at that. Choose a Creator to serve and be good at that too.”

“The Qun is not the same at all,” Bull’s surprised to find himself insisting. But how can she compare a life in the woods flitting from one place to the next with the staunch demands and rigid hierarchy of life under the Qun? He was probably the only Qunari she knew, sure, and admittedly he was no sterling example of what the Qun created. But even so, the comparison spoke volumes to Ellana’s ignorance.

“Really? Didn’t you tell me you were born to be a soldier, but when your Tama didn’t approve and you didn’t meet the expectations, your role in life changed?”

He twinges, surprised by her excellent memory. The day he became Hissrad, the ‘liar’, was not a fond memory. He remembered the empty feeling, the instant regret of knowing that his petty actions in the face of his Tama forever altered the course of his life. But he remembers the comfort too – that was what the Qun brought to bear. The realization that you were who you were, that compromise was not possible, but that the Qun would make a place for you anyway. Would give you purpose when you proved unfit for another.

“The Ben’Hassarath was deemed the better order for my talents.” He replies, stiff.

“My father was warleader of our clan, the first hunter. Made so because his skills with a bow and knife were unrivaled. How is that different?”

“The Qun is not a convenient means of dividing labour so that the needs of all are met.” How could he get her to understand? It was more than a system of organization – it was a philosophy of being. “It's like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you're supposed to be.”

Ellana is silent for a moment, staring ahead as she digests his words. Bull wonders how they got on this track – he’d just wanted to cheer her up, see that famous crooked smile that she wore when crazy Sera and her got up to mischief, dousing lovely lady Josephine in a bucket of ice cold water.

“I don’t know, Bull.” She says, finally. “I guess the sculptor needs to keep working on me so I know what in the nine hells I’m supposed to be.”

Bull laughs again and the sound is loud and hearty against the oppressive silence of their march.

“You were born to kick ass, boss.”

The elf’s face breaks into an unexpected grin.

“Well, I suppose that has always been true.”

“Under the Qun,” he finds himself saying because in his heart he knows it’s true. “You’d be a leader.”

Her smile fades as her eyes widen slightly.

“You think so? Because of the mark, I guess?”

Of course she’d ascribe it all to that creepy glowing shit she did with her hand. The Ben’Hassarath had done the same, dismissed the elf as a fluke of magic, unwilling to admit that she was more than the set of circumstances that put the anchor on her palm. He’d tried to convince them otherwise back when he still wrote them reports, but they had never listened. Couldn’t acknowledge that true excellence, able command, flourished outside of the Qun and in the unlikeliest of places.

Bull shakes his head firmly.

“No, not because of the mark. My people don’t pick leaders from those with special powers. Nor do they choose from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented.”

“Oh.” She readjusts herself in her saddle and he can see that she is surprised by his words. “So the strongest of the soldiers aren’t your leaders in combat?”

A common misconception about the Qun – outsiders were forever confusing it for might-is-right, rule-by-strength system.

“No.” Beneath Bull, his stallion throws his head as if sensing the qunari’s impatience with the mistake.

“So...” Ellana prompts slowly. “How do qunari choose a leader?”

He clears his throat.

“We pick the ones who are willing to make the hard decisions. And live with the consequences.”

She swallows and he sees the way her hands tighten even further on her reins. On her shoulders are the deaths of every soldier she’s sent to the grave, of every person she couldn’t save. Stroud is in her eyes – he knew that guilt hung heavy around her neck, so potent that even a night at the tavern with Sera and himself hadn’t pushed it away.

“And you are very good at that, boss.” He says softly.

“Am I?” She replies too quickly, her voice breaking over the words and her gaze firmly on his.

But Bull doesn’t waver. He knows the words are true – he knows that none of them, her companions or her advisors, would be able to do the unimaginable so many times in a row.

“Yes.”

Ellana takes a deep breath in and looks ahead again. She is shaking slightly, and she kicks her heels into her hart, sending herself galloping forward. Without thinking, Bull does the same, pulling up alongside her again and falling into a quick trot to keep pace. Their troops behind do not follow.

“It took courage and skill to bring both the mages and the wardens in line, Inquisitor.” He rarely uses the title, but today he thinks that perhaps she needs to hear it. “It took incredible strength of spirit to decide between Hawke and Stroud. They trusted you enough to let you make that decision.”

She takes another deep breath and won’t meet his gaze.

“And it took more strength than any of us considered at the time,” he says finally. “to leave the people that raised you to their own fate so that you could go kick an ass that really needed kicking.”

She stopped her hart suddenly, and Bull yanked on his reins so that he could stop next to her. Behind them, he could see that Cullen and Cassandra had sped up to watch them.

“You make the difficult decisions, Ellana.”

“You made the hardest one of all, Bull.” She says, quick in her reply. Finally, one of them has brought up the incident that neither of the want to speak of. “How can you still preach the Qun when you have so thoroughly abandoned its principles?”

“You helped me make that decision too,” he replies evenly, unwilling to be driven to ire. This was her strategy in the face of hard truths – move on, make it about someone else, ask and listen to the pains of her friends. He wouldn’t let her this time. She needed to know what he owed her.

 “If I stayed loyal to my place in the Qun, Krem and the others would all be dead.”

“You left the system of being.” She says, parroting his words back it him. “The philosophy that gave you purpose.”

“You did the same when you left your clan and joined the Inquisition.”

She smiles, a wry half smile on her sun-bronzed face.

“And here I thought you said the Qun and the Dalish were nothing alike?”

Bull laughs.

“I’m saying that your decision made it easier to make my own. You are still an elf even though you aren’t Dalish. As Tal’Vashoth I’m still a qunari and I still understand the Qun, even if they’ve cast me out from it.”

The words smarted on Bull’s tongue, but they were all true. He’d tried not to think of it in the aftermath of that impossible call he’d made. He’d ignored the letters of outrage, the words that stripped him thoroughly of any rank and place of esteem he’d once held. But some part of him must’ve been thinking on his actions that day, on the little elf that convinced him to change who he was, and on the Chargers that had, without him really noticing, given him a reason for living outside of the Qun.

For once, Ellana seemed to be speechless. He could tell she wants to say something, to offer support, reconciliation, in the way she always does. But he speaks again before she can form the words.

“That’s why you’re the boss. You’re living with the consequences of so many choices.” He pulled up in front of her, pleased that the brute of a stallion he rode was pliant under his commands. “You inspire us to do the same.”

Ellana Lavellan sits tall in her saddle, the layers of fur draped over her shoulders and around her making the elf looking bigger than she is. Even through all the folds and bundles of cloth, he can see the hilts of her knives over her shoulders. Her hair is swept back in the braids of a Dalish elf but her face is smooth and unmarked.

“And that is why,” Bull continues. “your people in Wycome will understand. You made a difficult decision and it was for the good of the _whole fucking world_.”

The Inquisitor holds his gaze for a long moment and he cannot read her expression. She was always so good at that when she chose to be – kept her feelings close like a dirty secret. She seemed like she was about to say something when the rest of the contingent caught up to them.

“Inquisitor. Should we camp here for the night?” The Commander’s voice seems loud against the intensity of their conversation.

Ellana looks over her shoulder, as if surprised to see Cullen and Cassandra a few paces behind. She cocks her head and glances at the sky.

“No,” she says, firm. Another decision, dispensed with the ease of a crossbow bolt leaving Varric’s fancy toy. “A few more hours and we’ll be half a day out from Wycome. I want to reach it tomorrow by midday.”

“Very good, Inquisitor.” Cullen turns to face the soldiers. “You heard her!”

Ellana glances around at all of them – Bull, Cassandra, Cullen, and even Dorian who’s pulled up close and for once has stopped complaining.

Then she sets her hart into motion, an easy smile on her face. A confidence in her posture that Bull hadn’t seen since before Adamant. As she passes him, she doesn’t say a word. Instead she nods, a small gesture, but one that he’s pleased to see because he knows that it means he’s done good.

Ellana Lavellan was the boss through and through. When he struggled with the decisions he’d made - stay loyal to the Qun or save the men he’d fought beside for years - he thought about the boss and the thousand choices like his that she’d already made.

A leader was someone who lived with the consequences of difficult decisions. A principle from the Qun, sure, but one that would hold true for Tal’Vashoth and ex-Dalish elves, for former Templars, apostates, spirits, seekers and wardens alike.

A leader was someone like Ellana Lavellan, Bull decided, nudging his horse into motion again.

Sometimes, the boss just needed to be reminded of that. Whenever she did, Bull would be sure to be around.

*

“Do you _know_ who I am?”

Cullen had to stifle a laugh. The Marquis D’Seur was a pompous Orlesian noble who’d been run off from the court in Halamshiral and declared himself a merchant lord of Wycome. He was a big man with shiny silk leggings, a ruffled cravat that pulled too tight against his bulging neck, and a hat that seemed to be more bird than headwear. And he looked positively terrified.

“I _said_ ,” The Inquisitor repeated, sitting tall on her hart and out of her furs. Her armour was dark and clean, ready for battle if need be. In the quiet of the Marquis’ camp, her voice rang out, low and menacing, echoing over the nobles’ troops that had gathered at their approach. “Do you _know_ who I am?”

Cullen knew he shouldn’t be laughing, but the sight of Lavellan, so much smaller than this fumbling noble but so much bigger in spirit, a scowl on her face and her hand on a knife hilt at her waist, was damned incongruous. Worlds apart from the laughing face and teasing words that the Commander had come to cherish in the elf.

“I, well, that is, the Lady Guinevere Volant _did_ mention the Inquisition would send someone–”

“Someone?” Ellana interrupts, ushering her hart forward so that she’s squarely in front of the Marquis. Though the man loomed over her, his own horse much larger than the nimble, horned animal Ellana rode, he urged his mount back a step.

“Do I look like just anyone, Marquis?” She said with a flick of her wrist that brought green light to life. A ripple of muted gasps and whispers rang out in D’Suer’s soldiers around them. Cullen’s troops, used to the antics and abilities of the Inquisitor, stood stock still and silent. He glanced over his shoulder and gave the assembled soldiers a firm nod of approval.

“Yes, well, that is, well, you must be Inquisitor Lavellan,” the noble stammered. Cullen smirked as the whispering in D’Seur’s ranks grew, the troops in leather armour shying back from the light that the Inquisitor brought forth. Cullen had seen the mark enough times now that he wouldn’t flinch at its presence, but he couldn’t deny the queasy feeling it gave birth to in his stomach, the dull pull on his veins and in his chest that reminded him painfully of lyrium.

“I _am_ Inquisitor Lavellan.” Ellana affirmed with a flip of her chestnut hair, urging her mount into the Marquis’ space. Cullen remembered back to when she’d worn the title of Inquisitor with a look of discomfort. That version of the elf had shied away from attention, had done anything she could to get out of a parlay with the local lords. _This_ Ellana would have Josie beaming with pride, wearing her title and bringing every ounce of her image and reputation to bear to intimidate the Marquis into deference.

“Of _clan_ Lavellan.” She continued with a nod towards the walled city of Wycome that loomed not one league beyond the Marquis’ encamped army. “Who have proven instrumental in bringing stability to Wycome.”

“But the red lyrium -” the Marquis was foolish enough to interject.

“The red lyrium was introduced into the city by Duke Antoine in a desperate bid for power.” Lavellan clarifies, words like fast dropping hot coals. “He sought to blame the Lavellan clan. Despite years of peaceful trade between our people, the Duke needed a scapegoat for his foolishness.”

The Marquis slowly begins to nod. Eyes the Inquisition’s soldiers, arranged in neat rows behind Cullen. The Commander himself keeps his expression stern and rests a hand on his sword hilt. He knows he makes a fearsome sight in furs and glistening armour. Cassandra, at his side, doesn’t even try to hide her disdain, and the sneer on her lips as she regards the noble is contemptuous.

Like the other three lords they’d intimidated this morning, the Marquis was coming around. They’d sent half their force into the city to meet with Lady Guinevere, Josephine’s agent, to raise the Inquisition’s banner. But Ellana had rightly reserved the other half, insisting that she speak with each of the dissenting nobles personally. 

And by speak, the Inquisitor had clearly meant “frighten”.

“Lord Ambrose and his lackeys have decided to stand down.” Lavellan iterates. The Marquis nods. “I have granted each of them a seat on the Merchant Council, along with Keeper Deshanna of the Lavellan clan, and Lewelyn of the city elves.”

Ellana brings her fingers in and the emerald light of her mark is extinguished. Cullen lets out a small gasp as it pulls a piece of him with it, a small tug on his heart that gave way to a feeling of nothingness. He casts a sideways glance at Cassandra, to see if she reacts the same way to the mark, but the Seeker’s face is set in marble. In all her field missions with the Inquisitor, Cassandra’s likely witnessed the coming and going of Ellana’s power a hundred times and more. Where once the woman had been all distrust for the small elf that fell into their midst, she now watched Ellana with a look of satisfied pride, barely blinking as the anchor came and went.

“Ah, yes, I see Inquisitor.” D’Seur wrung his palms together, his pale blue eyes flicking from the Inquisitor to Cullen and Cassandra, and then skittering over the lumbering qunari, stylish mage, and troops in glistening armour behind them. “And might I also -”

Ellana scoffed, a loud and brazen laugh in the silence of the field.

“ _You_ want a seat on the Merchant Council, Marquis?” She urged her hart closer again. The dun-coloured beast obliged, levelling its horns at the man’s regal Orlesian thoroughbred. “You, who sought to besiege a city based on ill-conceived prejudice and unfounded facts?”

“Well,” the lord is taken aback and Cullen’s eyes narrow as he hears Dorian giggling behind him. “if Lord Ambrose and Lady Chamberly…”

“What is it your house trades in again, D’Seur?” Ellana interrupts again, dispensing with all pleasantries and titles.

“Ah, yes, of course.” The man swells up, finally finding something to be sure about.  “We are an importer of exotic goods of exquisite quality. As you know, Wycome is southern Thedas’ largest source of Antivan wine and much of that is facilitated through the many connections I have with the Antivan merchant class. You can rest assured that, should I be granted a seat, no quarter of the Inquisition’s territory would be without the finest goods that Antiva, Tevinter and the Free Marches have to offer. In fact –”

Ellana held up her hand and the man’s babbling ground to a halt.

“You seek to entice us with _baubles_ and _alcohol_?”

Cullen shoots a glare at Dorian on his left, and the mage turns his cackling into a cough.

“Well, that is, I’m sure that a distinguished lady such as yourself-”

“Silence.” Ellana’s gaze turns pensive and her chin is high as she studies the Marquis through lowered eyelids.

The tension in the air is palpable. Metal creaks as the Marquis’ soldiers shift in their spots. Behind Cullen, the Inquisition’s troops are still as stone. He had Rylen and Blackwall to thank for their impressive discipline, especially since this was the fourth such display they’d witnessed this morning. And the march to Wycome came no more than a fortnight after they were all thrown into desperate battle at Adamant. He owed his troops a long rest after this.

“You are fortunate, Marquis,” Ellana says finally. “That my chief ambassador hails from Antiva and often bemoans the Inquisition’s lack of creature comforts.”

Relief washes over the Marquis’ face.

“Your troops must remain quartered outside the city, but you may enter to join the Council in negotiations.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor Lavellan, you are most generous. I shall spread word of your go-”

“You will remember that Wycome enjoys the protection of the Inquisition now.” Ellana is firm as she turns her hart away from the man, uncaring of his prattling. “Any action against our members is an action against all of us.”

“Of course, Inquisitor, of course. Safe travels and may the Maker’s light go with you.”

But Ellana wasn’t listening to the man any more. Their work done on the outskirts of the city, she turned her mount towards the front gates of Wycome.

When they were a good distance from the Marquis’ camp, Dorian burst out laughing.

“You seek to entice us with _baubles_ and _alcohol?_ ” He cackled and Bull joined in. Ellana glance over her shoulder at the man and threw him a wide grin.

“Boss, who knew you could be so scary?” Bull rumbled.

“Evidently, not Lord Ambrose or the Marquis D’Seur,” she replied and Cullen was content to see her smiling. The entire ride to Wycome, the elf had been withdrawn, wearing her guilt on her face by the fireside each night, and speaking very little with any of them. This smile and ready energy were a welcome substitute.

“You did well, Inquisitor.” Cassandra affirmed at her side. “If Lady Guinevere’s note is any indication, your people are most appreciative.”

Ellana’s grin faded into a soft smile and her eyes turned contemplative.

“I’m sure they’re eager to see you.” Cullen said softly at her side. She glanced at him and then let her green gaze slide away to contemplate the city.

“I’m sure,” she repeated.

The reunion was postponed, however, by the fanfare that awaited them at the gates. Josephine’s agent had arranged for a parade of sorts, and Ellana and her troops were greeted by a cheering populace who somehow saw the Inquisition as their salvation. They cried their thanks to the Inquisitor as she led their procession of soldiers through the city streets, Lady Guinevere at her side speaking quickly, an appropriate smile plastered to her pretty face.

Cullen, next to Cassandra, shifted uneasily in his seat. The reception was more than he’d expected, and even at the best of times he had little use for attention. The people threw flowers and he caught one, smiling at the young girl who’d thrown it.

“Quite the charmer, Commander,” Dorian commented, laughing as Cullen scowled at the man.

Ahead of them, Ellana looked tense, her shoulders stiff and the carefree smile from moments ago replaced by an appropriate mask of welcome and responsibility. When they reached the city square, it was clear that a speech was expected of her – at the top of a wide winding staircase that led to the city hall, a makeshift stage was in place, the city’s coat of arms draping over the stone walls on elegant tapestry.

Inwardly, Cullen sighed. As Ellana began to ascend the steps, he guided his horse past her and underneath vaulting archways into the central courtyard of the keep. His troops needed feeding and a barracks. With Cassandra at her side, the Inquisitor was an impressive enough sight – she didn’t need him and, much as he enjoyed watching her lead, he’d heard enough of her speeches in recent days.

He dismounted and fell into discussion with the quartermaster who waited within. Lady Guinevere had prepared the man, and Cullen had little to add to her instruction Distantly, he was aware of the rising and falling cadence of Ellana’s voice, clear and firm though it was lost in the intermittent cheers that the crowd let out.

A boy appeared to take his horse but Cullen waved him away, leading the gelding into the stables himself.

The horse whinnied softly as Cullen removed the saddle and let out a long sigh. It was good to be out of the spotlight and surrounded by four walls again. He couldn’t imagine how the Inquisitor spent so many nights on the road, sleeping on rocks and roots. She deserved better than that, and as he brushed his horse down in gentle concentric circles, he was glad for the lush accommodations Lady Guinevere had written of.

“You must be Commander Cullen.” Cullen froze at the voice and spun. In the courtyard the crowd was cheering, the Inquisitor’s speech coming to a roaring conclusion.

An elf, an older woman with silver hair and gentle spider webs framing deep golden eyes, stood behind him.  Her hands were folded serenely, robes of green and silver cascading over her shoulders like water over rocks. Cullen kept his face neutral, but he felt his stance tense as he took in the mage's staff on her back.

“And you must be the Keeper of Clan Lavellan.” He forced himself to step towards the mage and swept into a low bow. “It is an honour.”

“Indeed, Commander,” the Keeper reached out and was touching him before Cullen could pull back. Soft fingers at his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “I suspect the honour is more mine than yours.”

Inexplicably, Cullen felt himself blushing. Yes, she was a mage, but she was also an elder of her people, wise with years and the object of much respect. He straightened, pulled out of her touch and found himself floundering for something to say. Why was it so hard? Something about elves – they conversed to different ebbs and flows than humans – with more deliberateness, pregnant pauses and knowing cadences that his human mind could not interpret.

“I, uh, that is.” He cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the close confines of the stables. Behind him, his horse neighed lightly as if laughing at him. “We are glad to have reached Wycome in time. I understand it was a tenuous situation.”

The Keeper laughs and it is a flowing, free sound – like Ellana when she decides to keep none of her mirth from her face. The woman turns and begins to exit the stables. Unsure what to do, Cullen falls in step beside her. Next to him, he is surprised to see that the Keeper is nearly as tall as he is, shoulders back and neck straight.

“I suspect the merchant lords would have slain us all if you had not come.”

He glances at the elf, surprised at the calm voice in which she relays the words.

She tilts her face to him and takes in his expression with a bemused small smile.

“Fear breeds the need for blame, Commander, and promotes ignorance in the face of facts. Without the Inquisition’s support, my clan made an easy target.”

“Ah, of course.” He says because he knows he needs to be saying something. Why was she lurking in the stables instead of out with the crowd? He decides to vocalize the thoughts because he does not know what else to say. “Were you not curious to see the Inquisitor’s speech?”

Distantly, they can see Ellana through the vaulting archways of Wycome’s inner keep. She stands at the top of a parapet and seems to be responding to questions from the mass of people below. Cassandra and Bull flank her, the elegant Lady Guinevere standing just behind.

“I was more curious to know the men and women to whom our daughter entrusts her life.” The Keeper replies candidly. “I understand that she owes you her safety.”

“Oh,” Cullen rubs at the back of his neck as he walks alongside, feeling the awful poison of guilt seep through his skin for every time he’d let Ellana down. For outside Haven, or above Adamant. He cannot keep the bitterness from his tone, the sense of his own failures, as he begins to answer.

“The Inquisitor is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

The woman says nothing at first and the sick sense of responsibility begins to fester in Cullen’s stomach, resurfacing from where he’d thought he’d buried it. The memory of Ellana, cold and pale in his arms after they dug her out of the snow. The unbearable not-knowing that had swallowed them all when she disappeared into a vortex at Adamant. It hit him again like a solid gust let loose from a mage’s staff and it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, keep pace with the Keeper.

They continue to walk slowly towards the platform where Ellana is discussing something intently with Josephine’s agent. The crowd’s cheers are fading and it’s clear that the ceremony is ending.

“That has always been true of Ellana.” Keeper Deshanna says suddenly. “Surviving on Kirkwall streets after only fifteen winters. Refusing to return to us even after her father was slain.” The elf turns her face, holds Cullen’s gaze with eyes that are surprisingly like his own. Molten and warm. “She has never quite walked the path we expected of her.”

Cullen finds himself laughing, miraculously brought out of his guilt, hand at his neck again.

“That’s certainly true.”

“You must be very dear to her indeed if she brought you here.”

He stops walking, looks at the Keeper. The woman only smiles, refusing to explain herself.

“Keeper Deshanna!” It is Ellana’s voice that interrupts them; the Commander hadn’t noticed that the Inquisitor and her entourage were approaching.

The Inquisitor steps up to Cullen and the older elf, her gaze curious as it flitted between the two of them. Cullen doesn’t meet her eyes, instead scans over her head and is pleased to see that his lieutenant is conversing with Lady Guinevere, giving instructions to his men.

“Andaran atish’an,” Ellana intones with a respectful lowering of her head as she reaches the Keeper.

“Child,” Deshanna says warming, reaching out to pull Ellana into a hug. “There is no need for such formalities.”

The Inquisitor tenses in the woman’s arms and then relaxes, returning the embrace.

“We have followed the stories of your victories with great interest, da’len.” The woman says into Ellana’s hair. The Keeper is taller than their Inquisitor by some good inches, and Cullen realizes that even by eleven standards she is small.

The Commander clears his throat and looks away from their intimacy. He meets Cassandra’s gaze and shares a smile – it is so easy to forget that the Inquisitor comes from somewhere. Has a place that will welcome her, a people that will shelter her. That she gives all of that up to lead them.

“Ellana!” A man’s voice yells and Cullen’s hand is at his sword hilt as a tall elf sprints up to them. Then, the Inquisitor is in his arms and they are laughing, twirling in a hug that makes Ellana look like the young woman she really is.

“Elhan!” Her arms are tight around his shoulders as he spins her and Cullen tries to dismiss the sick clenching in his stomach. This man – an elf with chestnut hair and tanned skin, dressed in light leathers that disguise the deadly control he moves with – is surely no threat. The Commander lets out a long breath and loosens his grip on his sword hilt, though he does not let his hand fall.

“Now, now,” a voice mutters at his side and Cullen is annoyed to see Dorian watching him with a sly smile. “At ease, fearsome Commander.”

He says nothing but narrows his eyes at the mage. He lets his gaze move beyond the inexplicable sight of Ellana smiling unreservedly, her arms tight around the unknown man’s shoulders, and scans the courtyard for other potential threats.

“He’s her brother, Commander,” Dorian’s words had abandoned their teasing tone, and he tried to ignore the way the man watched him with interest.

“Oh.” Cullen feels the tension leave his body and somewhat foolishly drops his hand from his sword hilt. He studies Ellana and the other elf again, Dorian’s words casting them in a new light. The same chestnut hair and emerald eyes, Cullen noticed as the two separated, and then, laughing, pulled each other into another hug.

Watching Ellana now, gleaming eyes and a radiant smile, Cullen felt an unexpected twinge of sadness. In all her many months with the Inquisition he’d never seen such joy on her face.

They pull apart again and Ellana finally turns to face them all, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink from her pleasure.

“Commander,” she says, meeting his gaze before she moves on. “Cassandra, Bull, Dorian. This is my brother Elhan, and Keeper Deshanna, the leader of clan Lavellan.”

“And these,” she says to the elves this time, gesturing to where Cullen and the others are assembled. “Are the backbone of the Inquisition. Without them, I would not be standing here today.”

Keeper Deshanna meets Cullen’s eyes with a knowing smile and the Commander feels some of the familiar guilt return to pool in his stomach.

“I suspected as much,” the Keeper says, her voice low and melodious. Then she turns her regal gaze on Ellana. “Come, child. We have much to discuss before the Merchant Council convenes tomorrow.”

“I will go see to our troops,” Cullen says more to Cassandra than to the Inquisitor who begins to walk away alongside her Keeper and her brother.

Cassandra glances at him, surprise on her brow.

“Surely, Lieutenant Dershal is capable of overseeing the barracking?”

“All the same,” Cullen says because suddenly he desperately wants to be somewhere else, to have the space to clear his thoughts. “I like to be certain.”

Cassandra gives him a flat stare that tells him she is not convinced, but she does not argue as Cullen slips away.

The Seeker was right, of course. Under Dershal’s diligent supervision, the troops found their barracks and mess hall without complaint. Cullen supped with his soldiers, ignoring their questioning looks. He preferred dinner in the mess hall where conversation was not expected. It was easier than the double-edged questions of the merchant princes or the unfamiliar rhythms of conversation with elves. It also spared him more teasing from Dorian and Bull. Maker, the teasing.

Ever since that fateful day that he and the Inquisitor had fallen down a mineshaft outside Haven, he’d quietly borne the pointed jibes and sometimes lewd suggestions from just about every one of Ellana’s companions. He’d tried and failed to put a stop to all the nonsense and settled for simply praying that the Inquisitor herself never got wind of the antics.

Never mind that since that night they’d spent together in the darkness, he’d found himself thinking of her at the most unlikely of times. Remembering the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her soft hair and the feeling of her voice against his neck. The memories came in the training yard, when he caught of glimpse of her taking the stairs courtyard two at a time because Ellana Lavellan was always in a hurry to be somewhere. They interrupted him inappropriately in the midst of a meeting when he found that his gaze was resting on her delicate face for a moment too long. And when sleep proved elusive and the deadly need for lyrium overwhelmed him, he let himself get lost in the recollection of their night together, pictured her patient soft voice and the insistent encouragement she’d dispense if only she knew how he struggled.

Never mind that the memories plagued him each time she left Skyhold, her companions in tow, to face some impossible danger. That they tore him apart on the snowy night that Haven fell as held her frozen form close to his chest and thought that he had lost her.

Never mind that his growing interest in the Inquisitor had long ago crossed the line into unprofessionalism, that it clouded his judgement and endangered their shared goals. In the midst of a swirling thunderstorm that engulfed Adamant, he’d watched her plummet a hundred yards, somehow _knew_ that it was her in mortal danger even before she’d open the portal and whisked them all away.

In the aftermath of the green light that sundered their world, he’d felt himself spiral out of control, stumble as if the ground beneath his feet was something temporary, fleeting, impossible in a world that existed without _her_. His troops had needed his guidance and yet he found himself gasping, armour too heavy and blood-stained sword dead in his hands. What was the point of it all if she wasn’t there to lead him?

Rylen had taken over in that moment of his lapse. But it shouldn’t have happened – he owed his men and Lavellan more than distraction born of an unhealthy obsession.

When Ellana’s companions had come back, stumbling out of the green haze without the Inquisitor, Cullen had fallen to his knees. The demons rained forth but function abandoned him.

And then suddenly, she’d been there. Stepping forward out of the portal, raising her hand as if she’d always done this, as if she was born for that very moment. She ripped the demons from the world with a single ferocious twist of her wrist. Delivered a speech and made a dozen decisions before his mind had a chance to catch up.

He couldn’t speak to her then, not when he was realizing that his interest in her had threatened them all. He’d avoided the Inquisitor, made excuses when she tried to see him in the command tent, and stayed distant when she finally decided to head back to Skyhold ahead of the army.

But once she was gone, several days beyond them, Cullen found his thoughts returning to that single quiet moment they shared. Baring their histories in the darkness of a mineshaft, bodies slotted together in a way that felt so right.

_Snap out of it._ Cullen ground his teeth in frustration. It was easy to lose himself in the onslaught of memory and guilt. He’d let her down so many times, and that very fact tore at him, caused him to disappoint more than just the Inquisitor. It wasn’t healthy. Not for himself, or the Inquisitor, or for his soldiers.

And yet he is constantly confronted with her. He happens upon her now as he enters the great hall of the Wycome central keep. She is seated on the far end of the massive room, knees pulled up in a too-large plush couch, her brother seated across from her. They converse softly in front of a fire that cackles merrily in a fireplace set into the wall.

Cullen leans against the doorway, happy for a moment to observe the Inquisitor from afar. She’s speaking, animated, her hands gesturing though he cannot make out the words across the distance. Her brother is laughing, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The firelight bathes them both in flickering orange light.

He was heading for his guest quarters, but despite himself he finds he cannot move. He wants to add this memory to his vault – Ellana Lavellan, expression unguarded and safe. The threat to her people is averted, and he is thrilled to know that he played a part in that. That he has helped earn the easy smile on her lips, in her eyes, ensured that the worry and fear of their ride over was replaced with something she deserved.

“Pining is not attractive, Commander.” They sound like Dorian’s words, but the Nevarran accent is unmistakeably Cassandra.

He turns and gives the woman a tired glare. The Seeker is still in her armour – even Cullen had changed to a buttoned uniform shirt – and she watches him with a bemused smile, a hand on her hip.

“I’m not pining,” but the words sound false even to his own ears. “I was just taking a moment to be grateful.”

Cassandra laughs and rests a hand on his shoulder, stepping up to his side. Servants criss-cross through the great hall, footsteps and voices echoing, and on the other side of the room, Ellana and her brother are unaware of Seeker and the Commander.

“Grateful that that’s her brother and not some long-ago elven lover?”

“Cassandra!” He swats at her arm, moving out of her reach. “I thought you were above all this.”

The Seeker shrugged.

“Far be it from me to speculate as to your feelings, Commander.” The Nevarran woman meets Cullen’s gaze without hesitation. Cassandra was always painfully direct. “All I know is that the Inquisitor is lucky to enjoy such diligent protection.”

“I…” Cullen let the words die. He had no idea what he was going to say anyway. At movement in his peripheral vision, they both turn to look at the Inquisitor. Her brother is standing, clasping her shoulder fondly and then walking off down a hallway at the far end of the room.

“Cullen.” Cassandra says suddenly and something in her voice arrests his attention. “The Inquisitor has been hurt badly in the past.”

“You mean after that dragon in the Hinterlands?” He’s not sure where’s she’s going with this.

The Seeker lets out an angry huff.

“Don’t be stupid.” She jabs him in the chest with a finger. “I mean in matters of the heart.”

“Oh.” Cullen tries to say something more, but nothing comes. It crushes him to think of Ellana, wide green eyes and ready trust, in pain, the object of someone’s cruelty. What could Cassandra mean?

“I do not know what feelings she has for you,” the Seeker continues, unwilling to wait for his mind to catch up and words to form. “But she has noticed your… unusual behaviour. Your avoidance.”

“I don’t…”

“You owe her an explanation.” She nods towards the Inquisitor and Cullen looks over. Ellana is sitting, knees up and her gaze on the fireplace. She’s made no move to rise now that her brother has departed. “Now is as fine a time as any.”

“I can’t…” he gestures with his hands, willing Cassandra to somehow understand the risk he poses. He’s already coming undone at the seams - the need for lyrium seems stronger each day. How could she ask him to act on feelings that would further endanger their cause?

But when he thinks on her words, he knows that what he wants is different from what he says. Badly hurt in the past - a part of him yearns to be the one to right those wrongs.

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” Cassandra says as she begins to walk away. “Just speak with her.”

And then the Seeker is gone, disappearing down a different hallway.

Cullen lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Ellana is still facing the fire, seemingly content to remain where she was. She’d noticed his avoidance then, Cassandra claimed. He didn’t want that - didn’t want her thinking that somehow she’d done wrong.

That was all then, he told himself, as he propelled into motion. He owed her something more than a cold shoulder. His long strides took him up to the side of the couch where she sat, and she looked up at him, dark eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Cullen, there you are.” She smiled, soft and warm and he found himself immediately smiling back. “We missed you at dinner.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, hand at his neck. “I wanted to ensure that our soldiers were properly settled.”

“Of course,” she says, gaze drifting away and back to the fire. “We did it Cullen.”

“Inquisitor?” He asked, standing awkwardly at the side of the couch. With nowhere to look, he followed her gaze and let his eyes rest on the dancing flames in the ostentatious fireplace. Thing was large enough to roast a Ferelden charger. No wonder Wycome’s people were angry with their Duke.

“My clan is safe. Wycome is at peace.” She leans into the couch and lets her head rest back with a sigh. Cullen can’t help but let his eyes follow the smooth column of her neck, exposed as her head lolls. She’s out of her armour, he notices, dressed in a loose cotton shirt and slim breeches.

She opens one eye and looks at him, and then suddenly she’s laughing. Cullen stutters something inarticulate and looks away, embarrassed but feeling a smile on his own face.

“Why don’t you sit with me, Commander?” she gestures to the spot next to her on the couch.

Cullen clears his throat awkwardly. He’d planned to sit where her brother had, in the chair across from the couch. Since that night in Haven he hadn’t let himself too close to Ellana. And even then he’d been wearing armour, something firm and distinct when compared to the fabric of his dark fitted shirt.

But unable to think of a reason to do otherwise, he steps around the couch and settles down next to her.

“There.” She says, turning her face to watch him. He dislikes the teasing glint in her eye, the mischievous smile that curls on her lips. “Not so bad, right?”

“What do you mean, Inquisitor?”

“Well, you’ve been avoiding me lately,” her words are matter of fact, Cassandra-direct. “So I assumed it was something about my presence that was downright unbearable.”

“No, no of course not-” he says quickly, hands up as if somehow his gestures can explain. He interrupts himself with a frustrated sigh and leans back into the couch. It _is_ soft - the Marquis D’Seur hadn’t exaggerated when he described the lush imported treasures of Wycome.

“Cullen,” she tilts her head to one side, bringing it down so she can peer up into his eyes. He’s disarmed at the sound of his name in her voice, at the soft way she presses with her words, gently asking to know more. He cannot deny her anything when those eyes display a quiet worry that undermines her attempts at levity. She truly suspects that she has done something wrong.

“What is it?” Her voice is hushed and suddenly the cavernous space around them seems too still. Where had all the servants gone, he wonders, but he cannot pull his eyes from hers to look about.

“I…” the words faded and he wondered how he could dig himself out of this mess. With a million and one things on her to do list, sparing her Commander’s feelings should not be a priority for the Inquisitor. He swallowed and leaned back again, wrenching his gaze away so that he could stare at something – anything – other than her.

“Leliana wasn’t wrong,” he said finally, eyes fixedly on the fire before them.

“Wrong about what?” she’d dropped one knee onto the couch between them, her boots on the ground and her torso turned towards him. He cast a sidelong glance at her, but had to look away at the frank concern on her face.

“When she said that I was…” How to put it? “Stewing in guilt? Leliana wasn’t wrong when she said that.”

“Cullen, you’re here now helping me save the people who raised me.” Her tone is uncomprehending. “What’s to feel guilty about?”

He sighs again, raking a hand through his hair. When the words finally come, they start tumbling out because he doesn’t know any other way to make her understand.

“We looked for you for hours.” His throat is suddenly dry, his voice hoarse. “In the snow after Haven. Cole was muttering gibberish. Cassandra was silent. We waded through the snow for so long and I felt this feeling.” His fingers clench in front of him and he cannot look at the Inquisitor, cannot bring himself to witness the confusion that is undoubtedly all over her face. “Resentment, I suppose. For Cole, for making us think you could survive.”

“Cullen…” she shifts closer on the couch, puts one hand on his arm but he doesn’t look at her, just keeps talking.

“And then,” he swallowed, blinking back emotion and hating the way that his throat tightened. “We found you.” He finally brings himself to look at her, incredulously shaking his head as he looks down at the elf with wonder.

“You were half buried in the snow and when I pulled you out I was sure you were dead.”

He hears Ellana breathe in sharply, suddenly.

“You were,” his eyes trail off from her face, unfocused and fixed on some point behind her head. “so cold.”

The Commander gulps down the emotions that press at his chest and he meets her gaze again.

“But you survived.” Cullen can’t help it now; he brings a hand up and cups her cheek, his calloused fingers rough against the softness of the skin across her cheekbones. “I don’t know if it’s the Maker or the Creators or something else. But you’re a walking miracle, Ellana Lavellan.”

Her eyes widen and a flush stains her cheeks, just visible in the warm orange light of the fireplace. She holds his gaze, lips slightly parted, but for once the Inquisitor is without response.

Suddenly, the intimacy of their pose, the softness of the couch beneath them, the heat of the firelight all becomes too much. Cullen drops his hand and turns away from her again. He needs to keep going now that he’s begun this rambling monologue.

“And then we lost you again.” He lets out a heavy sigh that moves his shoulders. “At Adamant.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Cullen.” Her absolution comes quick – Ellana is always ready to forgive, to see the best in others.

“No, of course not,” he says, hand at his neck again. “But what happened next. I didn’t… cope well.”

“Cullen the siege was a _success_.”

“No,” he interrupts, firm, because he cannot have her idealizing him. “You don’t understand. When we saw you disappear I just… lost it. The troops looked to me for answers but I had nothing. I couldn’t function. Without Rylen there, who knows –”

Suddenly her fingers are on his lips and she’s inside the bubble of his personal space, nearly on his lap and he cannot breathe for her closeness.

“Cullen,” her face is just inches from his, her eyes round, endlessly green and intent on his. “It’s _not_ your fault.”

He blinks at her, wants to deny it, to explain so that she’d finally understand, but the pressure of her two fingers against his lips stills him.

“We _all_ freeze, Commander.” She insists, and try as he might to focus on her words, he’s fitfully distracted by the warmth of her legs against his thighs, her left hand on his shoulder. She lets the fingers of the right hand fall from his lips but she doesn’t move back. “And we _all_ have limits. Things that will push us over the edge.”

_Don_ _’_ _t you see,_ his mind rails at her though he is paralyzed by her nearness. _You can_ _’_ _t be the one who pushes me over. You can't be my limit._

“Ellana…” that’s twice now he’s tasted flow of her name on his tongue and he wonders if he’s ever before used her given name. “I’ve never fe-”

“Hush.” She says, suddenly, and then she’s turned, facing away from him but curling under the crook of his arm, pressing close against his side.

“Thank you,” she says, resting her head against his chest and Cullen is transported back to their shared memory, a mineshaft and the darkness, cold stone at his back and a warm elf in his arms. Compared to a couch in Wycome, plush fabric by the fireside and neither of them battle-ready in armour, their present situation was a markedimprovement.

“For explaining?” Cullen asks because he cannot believe what he almost told her and is desperate to cling to the new direction she’s given the conversation. Thank the Maker she’d interrupted him, aborting the ill-conceived confession that nearly escaped his lips.

He shifts ever so slightly to pull her closer and lets his arm tighten around her shoulders without thinking. She’s set these terms and he would stand by them.

“For digging me out of the snow after Haven.” Curled against him as she is, he cannot see her face. He wonders if her eyes are as thoughtful as her words sound. “For holding the demons off at Adamant long enough for us to return from the fade.”

She twists and he knows she’s looking up at him now. He meets her gaze, gold on green, and feels an overwhelming urge to bring his lips down to hers. She’s so close, so warm, and a foolish part of him suspects she would not stop him if he tried.

“For being here, leagues away from the thousand other things you should be doing now.”

He smiles into her eyes, knowing that he cannot act on his sudden desire. Instead, he replies:

“There is no place I would rather be.”

She smiles and he feels it in his heart. For a moment, it seems like she’ll lean forward, close the gap between their faces in a kiss.

But then her gaze breaks away and she nestles her head against his neck. The same warm feeling of soft hair and skin. He’d never imagined that he would feel it again.

“I need time, Commander.” She says softly and he finds himself immediately agreeing even as his mind scrambles to comprehend.

“Of course.”

Time for what? Had she felt the unspoken sentiment of his nearly-confession? Words he’d sworn he’d never let out, lurking just below their conversation, embarrassingly close to the surface. Somehow, she’d managed to disarm him completely, disable his intent with her insistent eyes and prodding words.

“I…” she gulps and he wonders what it is that she is not saying. What were her secrets, held close to her chest and out of the light? Hurt once before, Cassandra had said. “Will you stay here with me, Commander?”

He smiles at the patent nervousness in her tone. His arm tightens and he pulls her even closer than he thought was possible. Her knees slip over one thigh and he is amazed at how warm she is.

“Of course.”

She smiles and he hears it in her voice.

“Thank you.”

He tightens his arm again, sinking down into the couch.

“Anything for you, Inquisitor.”

They stay like that through the night, and when Dorian nudges them awake in the morning with an annoying toe and a knowing smile, they smile back and slip apart.

 


End file.
